the end of the world (as we know it)
by alyseci5
Summary: When the vampire virus starts to develop a resistance to the Nightstalkers' Daystar weapon, Abigail is left watching helplessly as King has to fight not just for his life, but for his soul and his sanity. Abigail/King
1. Chapter 1

**Pairing:** Abigail Whistler/Hannibal King

**Author's Notes:** This story started off as a much shorter fic, _Walked When I Shoulda Run_ written for the kiss_bingo challenge on livejournal. I'd always intended to get around to writing a sequel to it, and when the Space Pirate AU I'd been intending to write for het_bigbang refused to cooperate (mostly because this one was eating my brain instead), I ended up completely rewriting it and expanding the universe in which it's set. This is the end result.

Thank you to Aithine and catlinye_maker for betaing and to Hiddencait for cheerleading, which kept me going through many, many late night (and early morning) writing sessions. Thanks also go to my artist, Nessa Taleweaver, for her fanmix for the story.

-0-

Sommerfield's virus ripped a hole in the vampire underworld, just like she'd intended. It curled through the air ducts of night clubs and warehouses alike, a silent, deadly killer that dropped vampires in their tracks. It wasn't an easy death, and it wasn't always quick, but it was no worse than any kill the vamps had ever made. They thrashed and moaned, fighting for every breath, gasping and gurgling as the blood in their veins turned black and tar-like, threads of darkness crawling across their too-pale skin until, finally, they fell still and silent.

They didn't burn, not the way that Abby was used to. She was used to a clean kill, to fire and ash and then nothing left behind, not piles of pale corpses, eyes viscous and watery and skin grey and unclean. She thought she'd grown used to death but this was something else, something that seemed furtive and half-dirty, decaying bodies in darkened rooms. But it was effective; she had to give Sommerfield credit for that.

Too effective, it turned out, or at least that was the way Caulder had tried to explain it to her one night after they'd cleansed the scene with UV light, leaving ash and smoke behind instead of rotting corpses. His voice had been rough with exhaustion but his eyes had been alight with something close to an unholy glee. He was too busy worshipping at the altar of Sommerfield's brilliance, fascinated by her little perfectly designed micro-toy even though he'd never met the woman face to face, to pay much attention to Abigail's questions. It took Abby several attempts before she got anywhere near close to what he'd meant, or what she thought he'd meant. She was no scientist - she'd barely graduated high school before she lit off after her father, determined to hunt if only so he'd look at her more than once or twice - but she thought she grasped the basics.

Daystar killed its target too soon, behaving more like a toxin than an infection. She couldn't see the problem with that - dead was dead as far as she was concerned, but then Caulder had explained further, in smaller words this time. The vamps they hit with the Daystar virus didn't live long enough to spread it to others of their kind, and Daystar was too fragile in some ways, burned too fast and furious to be able to spread airborne on its own.

It meant that the remaining Nightstalker cells had to become the vectors for this particular disease, travelling from city to city, then town to town, tracking vamps the way they always had even if the way they hunted and killed was no longer quite the same.

Abby had no problem with it, not when the only difference now was that when they found a nest, they smoked the fuckers first, rolling in Daystar laced grenades until everything evil started dying and only then moving in with silver-laced blades and UV lights to clear up the mess.

The blades were seldom needed. Sommerfield had left them with one hell of a weapon, better than silver, better than garlic. Swift and merciless and as deadly as the vamps themselves.

They hit city after city, leaving chaos in their wake, and bad news travelled fast - vampire society started to fracture right in front of them, the cracks running through clans that had hunted humans for years, secure in their superiority. Now they panicked and fled before the Nightstalkers even hit their nests.

Abby took a certain savage satisfaction in that.

Daystar gave the Nightstalkers an edge that they'd always lacked.

It made them cocky.

-o-

By the time they ended up in some shit little Hicksville of a town in the middle of nowhere, Abby was running on fumes. They all were, exhausted and wrung out after moving down the food chain. They'd shifted their focus from the cities they'd already cleared to clearing the suburbs, then the mid-sized towns until finally they were scraping the bottom of the barrel, down to flushing out the few remaining pockets of vampires, the ones who'd gone to earth, ready to salt and burn the fuckers until the world was finally free of them.

At this rate, they'd end up putting Blade out of a job before the year was out.

It didn't seem like it could be real. They'd fought for so long, and followed in the footsteps of generations of people who had fought and failed, that she could scarcely believe the end was in sight, even if the facts seemed to speak for themselves. It was becoming harder to find anything **to** hunt these days, and she didn't think it was just because individual vamps had gone into hiding. Maybe Caulder had been wrong about Daystar not spreading on its own, or maybe even vampires didn't want to end up in these scummy little backwaters. Whatever the reason, it was difficult not to get caught up in their own hype, see the lack of opposition as anything but a complete victory.

And if she was having difficulty in keeping grounded, the rest of them were no better - King was almost giddy at the possibility of the end being in sight, too bright-eyed and bushy-tailed to be headed anywhere except a spectacular crash and burn. She'd seen him in this mood before, more than once, always when he was exhausted, surviving on little more than sugar and caffeine. She could only hope that this time it wouldn't hit until all of this was over and they had time and space to breathe.

As for the others...

Carruthers was mouthing off, sarcastic, bitchy little remarks that had none of King's off-the-wall charm about them as she bounced around the interior of the van, checking that everything was stowed away securely. She wasn't happy about being relegated to scut work and she wasn't shy about sharing. Hedges had been a damned sight more professional about it, even given his constant sardonic and sarcastic back and forth with King.

God, she missed him, more than ever at times like these.

Unlike Hedges, Carruthers was all bullshit and no substance, and it wasn't difficult to tune her out. Even King was only half-listening to her, his face settled into a faint, sardonic smile that was his usual response to her crap. Abby caught King's eye and wasn't surprised when he rolled his in return. Maybe Carruthers actually bought that he was interested, or maybe she just didn't care, but King's lack of response wasn't shutting her up any.

King's fingers were drumming against his thigh, a staccato little beat that set Abby's teeth on edge, but she knew better than to mention it. Besides, she'd take King over Carruthers - over any of them - all day and every day, and King knew it. Just like she knew that the feeling was mutual.

Carruthers let loose another stream of invective and Abby's shoulders twitched irritably. It took an effort to swallow it down, to let Carruthers' words glide over her, a surface irritation, nothing more. She pasted on her impassive face and let Carruthers make of that what she would - there wasn't any point in getting worked up about it.

Henderson had a different view, or maybe it was that Carruthers had pissed him off once too often. One clatter and thump too many and he came back with a biting remark of his own, one that had Carruthers bristling and rising up to her full, not particularly impressive height, getting in his face.

King's fingers paused, his gaze darting between them as they went toe to toe. She knew him well enough not to miss the speculative little gleam in his eyes, and she sighed. She might keep her distance, learning what she needed to by observation, but King was more of a 'get in there and poke with a stick' kind of guy when it came to figuring people out. If she didn't shut this down quickly, he'd make the situation worse, mostly because he'd find it funny.

"Enough."

It worked - Henderson and Carruthers stopped glaring at each other and turned their outrage on her instead. It made a frustrating kind of sense - she was an unknown quantity, and it was obvious that they'd danced this dance more than once. But she wasn't a snot-nosed kid like Carruthers, or an overly muscled has-been like Henderson - she'd been dancing to a different and deadly tune before either of them had known vamps were for real.

She could take either of them without breaking a sweat, something Henderson obviously didn't appreciate. He took a step closer, his face still red with anger, before he came - or was brought - to his senses. She'd like to think it was because she'd straightened up and pulled on her 'I'm taking no shit' expression, but she had the sneaking suspicion that his sudden hesitation had more to do with King and the way he suddenly glowered, switching from easy-going and semi-lazy to veiled threat in a heartbeat.

She huffed impatiently; there was too much damned testosterone swirling around the room, and she was including Carruthers in that little observation. "Are you done?" she bit out, letting her irritation show.

King subsided before Henderson did, throwing her an apologetic little side look that she ignored. Instead, she made damn sure she stared Henderson down, not giving way until he did. Even then she tracked his movements until he'd finally settled with a creak of leather into one of the battered seats in back before she turned the anger down any.

"We're here to kill vamps," she reminded him - all of them, King included. "Not each other." Henderson turned his glare onto King, which only showed that he was an equal opportunity asshole as far as Abby was concerned.

This time she held Henderson's gaze long enough to drive the message home before she dismissed him, turning her attention back to her bow and ignoring his continued glower. He'd learn, or he wouldn't. She couldn't bring herself to care much about which it would be.

The feel of her bow in her hands soothed her, smoothing out all of her rough edges. She rarely got to use it these days, not with the Daystar being the weapon of choice, but the touch of it was still familiar, the shape and the weight of it in her hands. When she finally looked back up again, King was watching her with a wry smile, a moment of perfect understanding, just one of many that existed between them.

When he realised that he had her attention, he nudged her gently with his foot.

"Wanna grab pizza after?" he asked, leaning back in his seat as though he didn't have a care in the world. He was ignoring Carruthers and Henderson much the way she was doing. There was no doubt he wasn't extending his invitation to them and she suspected they wouldn't take him up on it even if he had been. His smile settled into something sweeter, something meant only for her, and she shrugged, trying to ignore the slow rising tide of warmth his look triggered in her. There'd be time for exploring that later, after they'd won.

It was just another incentive to get this thing done as far as she was concerned.

"We have to get back for Zoë," she said, turning her focus back to her bow, which was a lot safer than meeting King's eyes and risking forgetting herself. The tension was slightly off, and she focused on tightening it, giving King only part of her attention, at least on the surface.

He wasn't fooled. He knew her too well, too.

"Did I say we should leave the kid behind?"

She glanced across at him. His eyes were crinkled at the corners, the way they always were when he found something amusing, and she treated him to a half-shrug. "It'll be late," she offered.

He echoed her shrug. "Like the runt keeps regular hours anyway." He leaned closer to her, his tone taking on a familiar wheedling edge, one that never failed to make her smile. "C'mon," he said. "Live a little, Whistler."

"Fine, but you're buying."

He grinned at her, sudden and sure, and warmth spread in her belly again. She tried to push it back down, stick it away in a little box the way that she always had, but it was a little harder to do that these days. She'd just opened her mouth to say something, anything that would distract them both, stop her from grabbing hold of that stupid Kevlar vest he wore and pulling him closer, kissing the smirk right off his face, when she spotted salvation heading towards them - Caulder, with Sullivan dogging his heels like a disgruntled Rottweiler. The sight of them, the reminder of the task ahead, gave her the breathing space to clamp her confused and conflicted feelings about King back down again, burying them with everything else that was superfluous to the mission in hand.

It was much safer that way, no matter what her treacherous libido told her.

Caulder swung the box he was carrying up into the van, sliding it towards Abby's feet. Carruthers made an impatient, tutting sound in the back of her throat, her hip cocked aggressively, but Abby ignored her again, her eyes fixed on Caulder's face.

"I would like you to do something for me," he said. "If it is possible."

She nodded, not even checking with King before she accepted for both of them. They both owed Caulder a hell of a lot. Whatever he needed, he got.

Caulder's fingers tapped out a beat on the metal floor as he held Abby's gaze. "I need samples. You will need to shield them from sunlight, but I have put containers in with the Daystar weapon. They should serve. The grenades are armed, as usual."

Abby drew her eyebrows down in a frown when he stopped there, not elaborating any further. It wasn't a refusal and Caulder was smart enough to get that, but whatever he had in mind, he obviously wasn't sharing. Abby respected him too much to push it. Yet.

"Just to clarify," King said. "When you say samples, you mean bits of dead vamps? And if the answer to that question is yes, then I've got couple of other questions for you - how many bits, and any bits in particular?"

Caulder actually cracked a smile at that, although it was distracted around the edges. There were lines of tiredness radiating from the corners of his eyes, the dark shadows underneath showing clearly that he was as exhausted as the rest of them. In Caulder's case, however, it was for a different reason, and his exhaustion wasn't overlaid with the kind of anticipatory glee she could see reflected in the faces around them. Except for Sullivan - he was scowling, as usual.

"Any will do," Caulder replied. "I..." His voice trailed off and he wiped his hand tiredly over his face, obviously gathering his thoughts. "I wish to do some... comparisons to Sommerfield's existing samples."

He was speaking Greek as far as Abby was concerned, but she nodded anyway to show that she understood his instructions, as brief and uninformative as they were. Samples she could do, as long as he wasn't asking her to do anything with them once she had them. She was a firm believer in the division of effort - she was more than happy to leave the scientific stuff to someone like Caulder as long as he didn't get in the way of her kicking ass.

"Okay, boys and girls." King's tone was slightly ironic as he clapped his hands together, and his eyes widened comically at her when she glanced at him, telling her everything she needed to know about how ridiculous he found it that he was the one taking charge. "Let's get this show on the road."

With a last nod at Caulder and Sullivan, she followed him back into the van.

-o-

There was something to be said about vampire consistency, Abby thought as they pulled up outside the rundown nightclub they'd identified as a potential nest. King had told her once that it was a side effect of living as long as most of them had - at least the ones in charge. It was a generational thing, he'd said, cracking a grin at her. Something about being old and crotchety and convinced that young whippersnappers needed to mind their place. She'd only half believed him, given his propensity for bullshit, but maybe he was onto something.

Whatever the reason, it made the last few vampires a little easier to track than it might have done otherwise. They had it down to an art form now - just head for the nearest, seediest bar, preferably one with a young, Goth-looking clientele, and start looking for bodies.

And if they wanted bodies, there were plenty of them turning up in this part of town.

The official reports said drug use, but she knew damned well that 'official' couldn't be trusted, not when the official in question stood a good chance of being marked with a clan tattoo. There'd been something off about the pattern of deaths when the Nightstalkers had looked into them, the kind of 'off' that screamed vamp to Abigail, and that gut feeling had moved this town to the top of their list of potentials.

"What do you think?"

King came to stand beside her in the shadows, his eyes scoping out the building in front of them, much as she had already done. She shrugged, checking out the doorways and windows one by one.

"It's quiet," she observed and for once he didn't point out that she was stating the obvious. "I guess they go to bed early in... What's the name of this place again?"

He pulled a face. "God knows. So, what's the plan?"

She hesitated for a moment, still checking out their target. "Same as usual, I suppose."

He nodded, turning slightly to jerk his head at Carruthers. "Smoke 'em if you got 'em," he said.

The look that Carruthers gave him fell firmly in the range of a confused scowl, but for once King kept his eye roll down to a minimum. Maybe he'd spent enough time with Zoë to temper his immediate mocking reaction or maybe he was just too tired to bother, but his tone was fairly patient as he explained, "Let's roll the canisters into the nest and see if we can't kill us some vamps."

The look Carruthers gave him this time spoke volumes, none of them good. She dragged Caulder's box out of the back of the van, cracking it open so that Abby could see the neatly serried rows of virus grenades that Caulder had developed, building on what Sommerfield had already done.

Caulder might not have Hedges' invention or flair when it came to weapons design, but his were just as functional and a little more elegant. Hedges had tended to go for substance over style, as long as substance consisted of armour plating and a fuck you attitude.

She moved out of the way as Carruthers pushed past her, shooting Abby a filthy look. She had no idea what Carruthers' problem was with her this time, and once again she tamped down her impatience at the other woman's attitude. They didn't have to be bosom buddies; they just had to work together.

King leaned against the wall beside her, his attention switching between Carruthers and the supposedly empty nightclub.

"So, pizza?" she asked, sotto voce.

He shrugged, his focus still on the building. "Wasn't sure how Half-Pint would cope with Thai. But what kid doesn't like pizza?"

"I guess."

He tore his attention away from their target for long enough to give her a tiny half-smile. "So it's a date?"

If he'd tried to freak her out by using the word 'date', he'd failed. She wasn't quite that easy to get a rise out of, and he should know that by now. She limited herself to nodding absently, too busy watching Carruthers get into position to pay him much heed. She only took her eyes off Carruthers when she was finally satisfied that they were as ready as they were ever going to be. "Okay, we're up."

They hit no resistance as they sent the first grenades in, hanging back long enough for the vapour to start to rise and fill the air. It was routine by now, and they moved like clockwork, not even stopping long enough to discuss it. Abby was beginning to think that they could do it with their eyes closed - salt and burn, rinse and repeat. If there were vamps in there, they'd already be dying, and the only difference this time was Caulder's request to come back with samples.

That shouldn't present any difficulty.

She went in first, the way that she always did, and the first thing she noticed was how quiet it was, none of the gasps and groans she'd grown used to as their targets gave up on the immortality that they'd fought so hard to cling to. Maybe they'd been wrong about the reason for so many deaths in this area recently. Maybe it really was nothing more than a bad batch of blow.

She felt a momentary pang of disappointment as she swung her flashlight around, shining it in every corner, one she quickly quashed, half-disgusted with herself. She turned, looking for King, ready to suggest they pull out and that was when the shit hit the fan.

Carruthers let out a scream, the high-pitched sound ringing in Abby's ears and disorienting her as she spun towards the last place Carruthers had been. But there was no sign of the other woman and Abby had only taken a single step before something hit her, hard and low, knocking her off her feet and sending her flashlight spinning across the ground.

Fangs flashed in the strobe-like light, snapping towards her face as she finally managed to free her arm and hit her assailant in the throat. Vamp or not, he went down, his hands wrapped around his neck as he let out a gurgling cry.

She rolled to her feet, striking her heel against the floor to release the blade hidden in the sole, but something else hit her before she could get to where Carruthers had been, something vicious and better controlled this time. Fists hit her in the kidneys, hard enough to have her doubling over, the pain leaving her sick and lightheaded. She ducked away from the next blow, stumbling backwards and hitting the wall hard enough to knock the breath right out of her.

Carruthers screamed again, and Abby locked her arms, pushing herself away from the wall and using that momentum to take down the first vamp to cross her path. She followed him to the floor but rolled with it, lashing out with her foot and burying her boot - and the sturdy silver blade protruding from it - into his midsection with predictable results.

He died, screaming and flailing as he exploded into dust and smoke.

She lurched upwards again, calling for King but not hearing any response. And then she had no more breath to talk, just to fight. Her skills were rusty and it was hard going - not as quick to deliver a blow as she had been, and just as slow in recovering from them. She'd been too damned complacent to stay on top of her game. They all had, relying on a fucking antivirus to do their jobs for them.

And with Daystar, they shouldn't have met any resistance - the bastards should be dead by now, all of them. She could smell the sharp tang of Daystar in the air, the way it left a greasy taste on the edge of each breath, coating their tongues even if it didn't kill humans, but the vamps around her weren't dying and it fucking terrified her.

If the Nightstalkers died here, there would be no second line of defence, not with their greatest weapon rendered obsolete. Blade was just one man, and until they'd come along he'd been losing.

She took down the next vamp with the arc that Hedges had built for her, cutting through him clean and true. But there were too many of them - too many for her to cope with and Carruthers at least was down. Had to be by the way she'd stopped screaming. She couldn't see Henderson at all - couldn't see anything in the darkness, and why the fuck hadn't they lit this place up with fluorescents before they'd taken a step inside?

But it wasn't Henderson she looked for, listened out for, even as she fought for her life, losing step by step, finally taken down by a blow that had her seeing stars, blood running into her eyes and blinding her.

It was King, and there was no sign of him.


	2. Chapter 2

-o-

The first time she came to, awareness was swiftly followed by a wave of nausea. Her body was bumping and bouncing against a hard, unforgiving metal floor, and she could hear a low, rumbling sound, something like the noise of an engine. It took a moment for her to gather her wits, and when she did it the realisation dawned that she must be in some kind of vehicle, a vehicle that was taking her further and further away from any hope of rescue. A surge of fear rushed through her, but when she tried to move, tried to fight, she earned herself another punch in the face for her trouble.

It sent her straight back down into the darkness.

The second time she regained consciousness it was more slowly, her head pounding and rusty nails digging into her eyeballs. The floor underneath her was rough concrete, coarse and cold, and she had no idea where the hell she was or how long she'd been out. Her weapons were gone when she reached for them, every tiny move she made sending spikes of pain through her head. They'd even taken her boots, and with them the silver blade hidden in the sole. Even with her brain sluggish and uncooperative, it only took a second for her to realise how utterly screwed she was.

She was going to die. No chance of a last minute rescue, no knight in shining armour, and no miracles, not for her.

She should have been more okay with it than she was. Dying had always been a possibility, and she thought she'd made peace with that every single time she strapped on her weapons and took a step outside the door of whatever sanctuary they'd built. But being faced with it now, when it looked like becoming a reality...

She took a deep breath, holding the panic at bay with some effort. She wasn't quite willing to give up yet, not without fighting every step of the way, and anyway, it wasn't death that really frightened her, not if it was quick and clean. But to die like this, when they'd thought the end was in sight, when she thought that maybe she'd finally get to have a fucking life...

It would be ironic if it wasn't so fucked in the head.

She pushed herself up onto her knees, the room spinning and leaving her nauseous again as she struggled to catalogue her injuries. The whole process took a lot longer than it would have done if her brain hadn't been pounded into Swiss cheese. Her jaw ached, that was the first thing, and there was a line of fire across her throat, where someone had cut her or half-choked her - she couldn't remember which and it didn't seem important now. Her kidneys ached as well, a dull, heavy throbbing that told her she could be in trouble, or would be if she survived long enough to piss blood for a week.

And speaking of blood, there was still blood on her eyelashes, burning in her eyes, but when she touched her forehead, where the blood had originated, it was tacky to the touch, telling her that she'd been out for longer than she'd thought.

None of that boded well.

She wiped at her eyes, ignoring the stinging, and started to rise to her feet, knowing that the chances were that she wasn't going to make it, not when her legs felt like Jell-O. She was right, but it wasn't her nausea that forced her back down again. It was the heavy hand that landed on her shoulder, the weight of it driving her back down to her knees as her stomach rebelled.

Maybe she should throw up on the fuckers, since that seemed to be the only line of defence she had left, but the thought faded as soon as she'd had it. She wasn't going to give the bastards the satisfaction of losing what little dignity she had alongside her lunch.

The sound of scuffling reached her ears and she turned her head just in time to watch Henderson being dragged into the room. He didn't look good; his face was red and puffy where they'd struck him and his nose was bloody and swollen, almost flattened in the ruin of his face. She met his eyes for one, long hopeless second - long enough for him to register that she was there, that she was pinned helplessly against the floor and that he was on his own - and then, just like that, he was gone, one of the vamps snapping his neck with a crack that she was going to be hearing in her dreams.

Assuming she lived long enough to have them.

The vamp let his corpse fall to the floor with an empty, hollow thud and stepped over it like it was nothing, just a worthless piece of trash.

She swallowed down the instinctive protest, lifting her chin and meeting the eyes of Henderson's murderer as calmly as she could. Her mind was still whirring sluggishly, tracking everything, looking for weaknesses she didn't find. Everything about this fucker was locked down tight, from his neatly tailored suit to his highly polished shoes: slick, professional, and empty.

Only his eyes showed any sign of life. Henderson's death, at least, had been quick. Judging by the cold, hard fury that burned in the gaze that met hers, she somehow doubted that her death would be as merciful.

She took another deep breath, this time holding it deep inside her as she prepared herself for the worst, but it was Carruthers they dragged in next, half carrying the girl as she screamed and struggled, her face blotchy with fear and the tracks of tears clear against her dirty skin. All of her bravado - her snark, her bitter little diatribes, her cocksureness - was gone, leaving nothing behind but a scared kid.

She was even younger than Abby, but there wasn't a damned thing Abby could do to keep her safe. The only thing she could do for Carruthers now was bear witness while Carruthers suffered the same fate as Henderson. Watch Carruthers die and then die herself.

She should have known better - she knew that vamps were sick and twisted, that they gloried in it, and these fuckers were no different. Their overdressed captor didn't snap Carruthers' neck, quick and clean, the way he had Henderson's. Instead the vamp simply grasped Carruthers by the throat, keeping his eyes locked on Abby while he cruelly gave Carruthers plenty of time to spot Henderson's corpse, to redouble her struggles, squealing and bucking more like a terrified animal in a trap than any kind of fighter.

Carruthers kicked and screamed, breath coming out in whooping gasps and cries as she struggled to free herself, becoming more and more mindless with fear, and he just stood there, a bored expression on his face, unmoved by her kicks and her punches, ignoring the sharp tang of her fear in the air. It was only when Carruthers' screaming reached a fever pitch that he finally jerked Carruthers' head to the side, brutally sinking his fangs into her exposed neck.

His eyes never left Abby's face as he fed. In the end, it was Abby who looked away, watching helplessly as Carruthers' feet twitched, beating out the last few moments of her life. It seemed forever before they finally stilled, Carruthers' head lolling to the side like a ragdoll's as her eyes glazed over.

She was looking straight at Abby as she died, although Abby had no idea whether Carruthers could still see her. She hoped not. God, she hoped not.

When Carruthers' corpse hit the floor it did so with the same hollow, horrific thud as Henderson's. One of her arms stretched out pathetically towards Abby, as though even in death she was begging for the help that Abby couldn't provide. It took everything that Abby had not to flinch at the sound as Carruthers' body landed, not to scream herself at the sight of Carruthers' lying dead and empty, knowing that she was next. The terror bubbled up towards the surface, but she dug deep inside herself, as deep as she could until she found a well of steely calm to call on, dragging it out to stifle everything else. It was flimsy and threadbare, but it gave her the illusion of strength she needed to stare the bastard in front of her straight in the eye, refusing to look away as he headed towards her.

She couldn't give him the satisfaction. She wasn't King, with his smartass one-liners to hurl in this bastard's face or to hide behind - and, God, the thought of him lying dead somewhere like Henderson and Carruthers, dying alone, without her, **hurt** - but she had her silence and it could be just as effective a shield, if she used it right.

She owed that much to Carruthers and Henderson. And to King, who was the only one she gave a damn about. _I'm sorry_. The thought was nothing more than a small whisper, buried somewhere deep down inside her, hidden where the vamp in front of her couldn't hear it. _I'm so fucking sorry, Hannibal_.

The vamp smiled, the expression forming so slowly so that it seemed to creep across his face as he straightened his cuffs and fussed with his cufflinks. Carruthers' blood was still smeared around his mouth, pinpricks of it staining the pristine whiteness of his shirt, and it ruined the urbane effect he was aiming for. That and the fact he was a fucking monster.

"So, you're the famous Abigail Whistler," he said, and his voice was low and melodic, deliberately cultured to go with the crisply tailored suit and immaculate shirt, all of it at odds with the look of predatory fury in his eyes. If it was an attempt to cow her by showing he knew exactly who she was, he failed. They were all the same, vamps. They thought they were the second coming, buying into the sensuous hype, as if they were in a badly written novel or something, all gothic cemeteries and centuries of pretty suffering when in reality they were nothing more than disease-ridden parasites.

She held onto that defiant thought as she stared back at him, projecting as much contempt as she could with silence and a single look, and his smile widened until his teeth showed over his lip. It was a wasted effort. Subtlety didn't appear to be his strong point, and it wasn't like she gave a fuck anymore, not when King was dead.

"I can't say I'm that impressed, frankly. I expected..." He trailed off, waving one long, dark and elegantly manicured hand languidly in the air. "Well, something considerably more than I got. I'm a little disappointed."

And then the smile vanished from his face, leaving something harsh and stripped bare behind, the reality that lurked behind the mask. He didn't look amused any more - he looked lean and hungry, something sparse consumed with rage, vicious and vindictive.

"You're considerably less dangerous than I thought you'd be, you Nightstalkers. You don't quite rate as highly as Blade when it comes to the Boogeyman, but I have to say that you don't seem to be living up to your reputation." He stepped closer, reaching out to stroke one be-taloned finger down the side of Abby's face and she focused on him long enough to pull her head back and spit in the fucker's eye.

She missed but it didn't matter. King would be proud of her, and she tried to take some small measure comfort in the thought. She'd be joining him soon enough.

The vamp stepped back, his face contorting with fury as he wiped her spittle from his face. It probably wasn't smart to make him pissed, but what was he going to do? Kill her? But when he lifted his hand this time, it wasn't to straighten his perfect cuffs. Instead, he smacked it across her face, hard enough to split her lip and leave her ears ringing.

Now he'd got her blood on his shirt as well as Carruthers'. Hopefully, she'd ruined it. That would serve the fucker right.

She spat blood out onto the floor, and glared back up at him, strangely glad to have ripped all of his pretension away. He was showing his true face now, and it was as ugly and twisted as the rest of his kind.

"Bring the bitch," he snarled, and one of the Neanderthals around her - familiars, she could tell now that her brain was less Swiss cheese like, not vamps - grabbed her by her hair and started dragging her behind him.

She fought him every step of the way, landing kicks and punches with a ferocious, unending fury, but it was no use. The more she struggled, the harder he hit her and, when that didn't work in his favour, a second familiar grabbed hold of her, and then a third, lifting her until they were half-carrying her through the building as she twisted and bucked and bit. She kicked one of them in the groin and he doubled over, clutching at his balls with a squeal of pain that she was savagely satisfied by. She pressed her advantage, using her fists, her feet, even her teeth, but another punch in the face dropped her again, her ears ringing and blood gushing down from the back of her nose into her throat, choking her until she coughed and spluttered, splattering blood everywhere.

She was too dazed to put up an effective fight after that, only half-conscious when they finally dropped her onto yet another hard concrete floor. But even then sheer instinct had her rolling awkwardly to her knees, too fucking stubborn to quit and too stupid to realise that she was already dead. She only stopped when one of the familiars drew his gun and pointed it straight at her. He was too far away from her to take him down before he could use it, and she finally subsided, sinking back down to the ground and never taking her eyes off him.

If she was going to die, it was going to be on her terms, and she was going to take as many of them down with her as she could. Vampire or human familiar, it was all the same to her, and some of that must have shown on her face; as pathetic as she was right then and even though he was armed and she wasn't, the familiar took a step back, nervously glancing towards his vampire master.

His cowardice earned him a snarl, but she was pleased to note that she seemed to have wiped the smile from the vampire's face, at least temporarily. He was scowling as he stalked around her, keeping out of striking distance as his eyes burned with an icy fury. It was that look - cold and calculating, like a shark's, no, like something rotting and stinking, unnatural - that finally seeped past Abby's defences, past the pain and grief, putting her on guard. He wasn't looking predatory, the way that she was used to with vampires, and it wasn't as though any of them had ever had an original thought. Instead there was an air of anticipation about him, and she was beginning to believe that it was more than just about the pleasure of an imminent kill.

He finally stopped in front of her and smiled again, slow and sure. There was something in his gaze, something that lit up in his eyes as he looked past her, focusing on something behind her, that put a chill into her blood. But she couldn't look. She refused to look, refused to take her eyes off the son of a bitch, even when his smile deepened, something ugly and unpleasant once again rearing up underneath his façade of civility. She lifted her chin higher, staring him down when she had nothing but a fuck you attitude and a willingness to die on her side. No weapons, not any more, but that didn't matter.

She'd make this bastard pay for her team - for King - if it was the last thing she ever did.

It would be.

The vamp's head tilted to the side, watching her as if she was an interesting insect, something he wasn't quite sure what to make of. His curiosity brought him a step closer to her, and that was a mistake - when he'd come close enough, she curled her lip up in a snarl of fury and lunged forward, gratified to watch him stumble back, his smile rapidly disappearing again.

The goon on her right twisted her arm up, sending white hot shards of agony up into her shoulder as her tendons and ligaments protested, creaking and coming close to snapping as her head was forced down towards the floor. She bit down on the scream that fought to rise to the surface, snarling out a quick and brutal 'fuck you' in its stead.

That was something that King would have done; she caught hold of the thought, rebuilding herself around the pain and the grief of losing him, making it the core of her, something strong enough to keep her going.

Blade might have taught her that, but King was her incentive. He always had been. She'd just been too stupid to realise how deep it went and too cowardly to act on it.

The vamp clicked his fingers, gesturing peremptorily to whoever the hell had come into the room before turning his stare back at Abby. When he jerked his head upwards, she was hauled unceremoniously to her feet, fingers fisted in her hair as they spun her around, forcing her to look behind her.

Her heart stopped as two more goons dragged King into the room, dropping him unceremoniously onto the floor.

He hit with the same hollow thud that Henderson had, and she lunged forward again, trying to reach him before she was dragged painfully back, fingers digging into her flesh and then a knee forced into her back for good measure when she continued to fight. It bent her spine until she thought it would break and she joined King on the floor, hitting it hard enough to rattle her teeth and send blood spilling into her mouth again. Even then, even trapped and pinned, she fought to get to him, only stopping when she took another blow to the head that made her ears ring and her vision blur. When she could focus again, King still hadn't moved, and that realisation drained the fight right out of her.

He lay sprawled on the floor, silent and too still. Her eyes darted frantically over his form, looking for something, anything to give her hope, to give her a reason to keep on fighting. For a long, horrifying moment she thought that maybe this was what the vamp wanted her to see - her partner, dead, nothing more than a corpse for her to weep over - but then she spotted it, the slight rise and fall of his chest, and she could finally breathe again.

She snapped her attention back to the vamp, but it was too late. She knew that she'd given herself away even before she caught sight of his smirk. There was something elated in his smile, something grim and gleeful, and she finally realised what this meant, what he was going to do. Her blood froze in her veins, the pain of it radiating outwards until every part of her being howled with it, knowing that what was coming was worse than she could possibly have imagined.

The only reason they could have to let him live was because they were planning to kill him now, right in front of her. Tear his life from his body like they'd ripped it out of Henderson and Carruthers, and that was going to kill her just as cleanly as if they'd put a bullet in her brain.

Anything they did to her after that would be a mercy.

"Hannibal King," the vampire purred, sauntering over towards King and ignoring Abby as she lunged for him again, the move desperate because she was out of options. But that didn't mean she wouldn't try, not when King was at stake. Not when **everything** was at stake. "The other half of the best that the Nightstalkers have to offer." He glanced over at Abby, his eyes alight with ferocious glee. "Two halves," he said, and there was a dark kind of joy in his voice, something ugly that twisted the harmonics of it, something that turned sullen as he reached down with one hand, sinking it into the fabric of King's vest to haul King up onto his knees.

There was blood running down King's face, and King's skin was too pale under the mask of it, but the fact that he was still bleeding confirmed that he was still alive. The vamp shook him like a dog with a rat and Abigail was forced to watch as King blinked his eyes open and looked straight at her, just as Carruthers had. The look was unfocused for a second, but then King's pupils contracted and he **saw** her.

King coughed, the sound harsh and hacking, like he'd cracked some ribs, or maybe was even more injured than that, judging by the way that he curled up afterwards, panting heavily, and the awful liquid bubbling sound that lay beneath each breath. Abby licked at her suddenly dry lips, watching King and not caring now who saw it. It wasn't smart, wasn't smart at all, but she wasn't stone, inhumanly cold like Blade, and this wasn't Henderson, whom she barely knew, or Carruthers, who was a snot-nosed kid Abby hadn't been able to connect with.

This was her partner. This was King, who had her back, who had her trust. Who had her, even if she'd never let him know it.

"Let's see if we can't reinvigorate this double act," the vampire said, and his voice wasn't gleeful anymore; it was rich with satisfaction, ripe with pleasure, and it promised nothing but pain. He switched his grip to grab King by his throat, hauling him up until he was dangling in the vampire's grasp, scrabbling at the vampire's hand around his neck and fighting for breath.

That wasn't the only way that King was fighting; he threw a punch but it failed to connect, and when he kicked out the move was sluggish and uncoordinated. Abby surged to her feet again, being smart be damned, but one of the goons knocked her straight back down onto the floor again, pinning her down more firmly this time, and she could only glare and snarl, twisting furiously, as animalistic as Carruthers had been even if it wasn't her life she was fighting for.

"Not so sanguine now, are you, Whistler?" The fucker stared straight at her, ignoring King, who was still struggling for breath in his grip. The light caught in the vamp's eyes, flashing an inhuman silver as he jerked King towards him and sank his fangs into King's neck.

The scream was ripped out of Abby, a frenzied howl of anguish and rage as she fought furiously, kicking and punching, bucking and scrabbling, trying desperately to get to King. But they had her pinned down too well; she could only watch in horror, the world narrowing to nothing but the sight of King's face, his lips moving in a soundless gasp as the life drained from him.

The vampire finally let go and King's body crumpled lifelessly to the floor, the sight stopping the scream dead in her throat. It stuck there, choking her, wet and heavy with the force of her grief. She couldn't stop the tears streaming down her face, couldn't do anything but let them fall, no longer caring who saw them. There was no use pretending now - King was dead and that meant that so was she.

The vampire stepped back, wiping the blood - King's blood - from his mouth with the back of his hand. He licked at his lips, and his smile this time was grotesque, lips stained red and his sharp teeth obscenely white and shining against them.

"He's not dead," he said, his voice low and gloating. "Not yet. That would be too easy, and you don't deserve easy." His mouth curled up in a snarl and his voice lost its cultured edge, becoming rough and angry. "I'm going to leave the two of you alone together. That's what you wanted, wasn't it? You and your partner, together again?" He took a couple of steps towards Abby, leaning in as his face grimaced into an expression of mingled hate and fury. "You've killed us whenever you've found us, hunted us down when we should be hunting **you**." The last word was a bellow, and red spit splattered against Abby's face.

"Well, now you're going to be the one hunted, Whistler, and you're going to be the one to die. But I'm not going to kill you." He stepped back, drawing himself up to his full height and towering over her as he snarled, "He is."

He stepped back and straightened his cuffs again, that same gloating smile reappearing on his face as he visibly controlled himself. "Or you'll kill him. Either would be entertaining."

She watched numbly as he pulled a pair of gloves from out of his pockets, too heartsick to figure out what the hell he was doing as he pulled them on. He made a production of it, not in any hurry to enlighten her as he slowly smoothed the fabric over each finger, one by one. The smirk was back to playing around his mouth and his eyes were mocking, the theatrics continuing as he produced a silver blade from out of his inside pocket, flourishing it so that it caught the dim light, glinting menacingly.

"It wouldn't be gentlemanly to leave you without **any** protection now, would it?"

Even the knife couldn't give her hope, not when there were guns pointed straight at her and she'd be dead before she could use it on the fucker who'd condemned King to his worst nightmare. And so she stayed where she was, watching hopelessly as he dropped the knife on the floor out of her reach and then backed out of the room, his familiars following in his wake, their guns staying trained on her until they'd reached safety and the door clanged shut behind them.

She waited until she heard the sound of the lock clicking home before she finally moved, ignoring the knife as she scrabbled over the floor to King's body and grabbed hold of him, half-rolling and half-dragging him over onto his back.

The vampire hadn't been kind; the teeth marks in King's throat were ragged and torn, already turning black around the edges where the virus was taking hold. She pulled King's head into her lap and cradled his face in her hands, calling his name and shaking him, first gently and then less so when he didn't respond. The tears rolled down her face as she smoothed the hair back from his forehead, falling to drop unheeded onto his skin as she begged him to please just open his eyes. Please.

Her throat was raw by the time he finally shuddered and came to, staring up at her blankly, his eyes unfocused and eerily empty. "Hold on," she whispered, the words coming out choked and broken, forced out of that painful well inside her. "Just hold on, King. Please."

He tried to say something, his hands fluttering up to catch hold of the fabric of her sleeve, snagging there as she stroked her fingers over his face, over and over again like it would do any good. His skin was already heating up as the fever took hold of him, and he started to shiver, his body shaking uncontrollably against hers.

She pulled him more firmly into her arms, holding him as tightly against her as she could. She wasn't going to let go. She couldn't ever let go.

King was trying to speak, fighting for every breath, for every word. He finally managed to get them out, every one hoarse and cracked. "You... have to kill me," he slurred and her heart broke all over again. "Abby..."

"No." She shook her head, furious with him for giving up, furious with herself for the way that the tears were still bubbling up, grief and snot all mixed together when she needed to be stronger, more focused. "No, you hold on, you hear me? You hold on. We'll... we'll get you the cure..."

She was babbling, the words spilling out of her desperately in a torrent of denial, as though saying it would make it true, because it had to be true, it had to be.

The expression on King's face changed, grief now mingled in with the pain he was feeling - grief for her, and the sight broke her all over again.

"Whistler -"

"Don't." Her voice broke, the words catching in her throat, choking her. "Don't you fucking dare give up on me! You fucking bastard, don't you..."

Her voice was rising hysterically, but she couldn't stop herself, the horror of the situation overwhelming her, shredding every last bit of sanity she possessed. She was making it worse for King, she knew that, and that might be the only thought strong enough to rein her in. But not yet, not when the pain was still ripping its way through her, tearing her apart.

"Don't want to hurt you." He was gasping and shivering, his eyes glazing over as the fever raged inside him, but he still managed to keep them fixed on her face. "Abby, please..."

"You won't. I won't let you."

It was a promise to both of them, but he wasn't listening to her, his fingers hot and frantic against her skin as he tried to tug her closer, as though if he got her close enough he could **make** her listen to him. He turned his face in towards her, his body still shaking, and she couldn't tell if that was due to pain or grief, guilt or hopelessness.

She couldn't do this to him, no matter how much it hurt. So she tried, she really did. "I promise... I promise..." But she couldn't say it. She wasn't strong enough for this, and she hated him for asking it of her. Hated him and...

She loved him, and that finally let her regain control of herself. It hurt, it fucking hurt, a gaping wound in her chest, but she wasn't stupid - she knew this scared him more than anything, more than dying. She'd never been stupid when it came to understanding King, just about letting him close and that had been the problem.

She stroked her fingers over his face again, calmer now as she wiped away the blood and the sweat, the tears that could be hers or his.

"I promise," she whispered, and she could feel her heart shatter at the words, a lurch and a crack that left painful shards slicing into her. But she meant it, pressing the words into him, and into herself, as she pressed her mouth against his, kissing him for the first time but not the last, she wouldn't accept that it was the last. She couldn't.

His mouth was bloody, tasting stale and like death, but he kissed her back, fierce and greedy, his fingers tightening against her skin. She burnt the feel of him into her memory: the weight of him in her arms and the desperation of his kisses.

"I promise I won't let you hurt me," she repeated, and he actually smiled at her, so fucking grateful, like she was doing him a favour. "But you have to promise me, too, King. You have to hold on. You have to hold on for as long as you can."

The tears were streaming down her face, dripping onto his blood-stained skin, but she still leaned in to kiss him again, long and deep, trying to give him as much strength as she could, trying to capture as much as she could in case she lost it all.

"You have to promise me that. Please, promise me that."

He blinked at her, the move sluggish and uncoordinated, and opened his mouth. But before he could promise anything, his eyes rolled back in his head and his body started to shudder, seizing as the vampire virus took hold. She held him steady, her muscles aching as his jerking body slammed into every one of her bruises. Held him and gave him what little comfort she could, even though it couldn't be enough.

The seizure seemed to last forever, stretching out until her jaws ached with the effort of holding back her tears, her fear, everything that wouldn't help him, but in the end it was probably only a couple of minutes before it was over.

King finally slumped against her, his expression glazed and his eyes wounded, as he tried to speak. It took him several long, agonising moments before he could and his words, when he got them out, were slurred, ragged with exhaustion, but still too clear for Abby.

"Get the knife."

She shook her head, tightening her arms around him instinctively.

"Abby, please..." Shudders shook his body again, and if it was hell watching the fever take him again, she could only imagine the hell he was actually going through. But then her imagination was a lot more vivid than most people would credit. The tears were streaming silently down her face, but she couldn't stop to wipe them away, couldn't even think about it, too focused on him for anything else to matter.

She held him through the next seizure, and then the next, never letting go as the spasms shook his body, ebbing and flowing as they increased in intensity and then died back down again. She knew it didn't help, but she couldn't let go - all she could do was wait for the worst to be over.

And then she'd know that the worst was yet to come.


	3. Chapter 3

It took hours before King finally sank into an exhausted doze. His face was still far too pale in the harsh light of the single fluorescent light overhead, and sweat beaded his forehead. Her eyes felt gritty and her limbs heavy, weighed down with the same exhaustion that had taken King. She shouldn't sleep - even if she hadn't been gripped by the fear that King would still need her, would die if she took her eyes off him for a moment, it wasn't safe. But she was battered and bruised, heartsick and broken, and in the end it was just another battle she lost.

She only closed her eyes for a moment, stirring back into wakefulness when King shifted position in her arms. She blinked blearily, her limbs stiff and sore, and then King exploded into movement, surging upright and knocking her on her ass.

For a second, she was too shocked to do anything but stare up at him, her mind reeling. His fingers were digging into her upper arms, pinning her to the floor as he loomed above her. His skin was even paler now, his eyes glittering golden in his bloodless face, and he was staring down at her expressionlessly, the look in his eyes vacant. Her heart raced, fast and furious, as he tilted his head, his lips parting as though he was going to kiss her again.

White fangs flashed, sharp and terrifying, and she finally got with the programme, tensing up and trying to buck him off her. She failed, and that was even more terrifying, the fear sending the adrenaline coursing through her as she tried again, desperately trying to free herself.

He'd kill her if she didn't, and that would just tear him apart.

For a long, horrifying moment, he hung over her, his gaze fixed on the pulse beating in her neck as she fought to escape, and then, suddenly, unexpectedly, he let go.

She rolled over onto her front, gasping for air, her heart still pounding out a staccato rhythm in her chest and her fingers hooked into claws, digging into the concrete she half-stumbled, half-dragged herself towards the silver blade lying abandoned where their tormentor had left it.

Only when her fingers had wrapped around it did she turn and look for King.

He was pressed up against the wall opposite her, his palms flat against the brick, and he was watching her, his eyes wide and lost. She scrambled backwards, the hand holding the knife shaking, until she also hit the wall, the entire length of the room between them.

King looked away, swallowing, guilt and pain flashing across his face. She'd have gone to him anyway, in spite of the fangs, if hunger hadn't followed straight after them. He licked at his lips, a dry, nervous move that didn't do anything to calm the ferocious racing of her heart.

"You should probably keep that close," he said, his voice rough, as if his throat was dry and sore. Maybe it was. She should have listened more closely when Sommerfield had talked late into the night about the physiological changes that the vampirism virus wrought.

She'd make sure she'd listen to Caulder from now on. Assuming that there was a 'from now on'.

She eased herself down, forcing her heart rate to slow and her fingers to relax until it was no longer painful to hold her weapon. She should put it down, show King that even now she trusted him, but she couldn't bring herself to do it, not when he was still watching her with eyes washed clean of any humanity.

Besides, she'd made him a promise and she should reassure him that she was willing to keep it, even if she had no intention of choosing herself if it came down to a choice between the two of them.

She drew her feet in, but even the sound of her bare soles scraping along the concrete floor sounded too harsh and loud in the silence that had fallen between them. King tilted his head again, still focused on her, eerily quiet. She wasn't used to King being quiet - even ignoring the vampirism, it left her on edge.

King finally looked away from her, clearing his throat awkwardly.

"How long before someone rides to the rescue?" he asked.

She didn't have an answer for him, not one that would prove true, and the silence stretched out between them until King shuffled awkwardly, looking back at her again. It finally forced her into admitting, "I'm not sure how long we were out. And I think they moved us, so... it might be a while. I don't..." She trailed off, trying to think it through. "Without Hedges to hack back into the satellite once they changed the access codes..."

No trackers, she meant, and he nodded as though that was the answer he'd been expecting. But he'd stopped looking at her, staring at the wall instead as though that would give him the answers he sought. "Keep that knife close," he repeated, and there was steel in his voice this time, leaving no room for doubt or argument.

She couldn't argue with him anyway, even though she wanted to. It would be a lie, and she didn't make a habit of lying to King. Except...

"They'll come," she said.

-o-

They didn't.

-o-

She didn't know how long they'd been locked up now. She'd long since lost track of hours, days. It couldn't be weeks, not without any access to water. She was parched, beyond parched, her tongue like sandpaper in her mouth and her throat filled with razor blades. The hunger was more manageable in comparison, but there was a throbbing pain behind her eyeball and that didn't bode well for her continued good health. Her poorly treated muscles had stiffened, but she was reluctant to keep active, not when King was so on edge. She didn't want to admit it, but anything that didn't draw his attention to her had to be a plus.

King was pacing again, keeping to his side of the room but still stalking up and down like a caged tiger.

Stalking, she thought bleakly, seemed the right way to describe it. There was something in the fluid way that he moved, something predatory and intense that contrasted with his normal graceful lope. He'd been at it for hours, unable to keep still, and if she was thirsty - and thirsty didn't even come close to describing the lack of moisture in her mouth - then how much worse must it be for him? The newly turned usually fed quickly, she knew that much, but how long they could go without feeding... That was something she wasn't quite as sure of.

She should be. She'd always focused more on the hunt than she had on anything else, too reliant on everyone else having the answers she didn't. If they ever got out of here, she was going to fix that, make damned sure that she knew everything there was to know about vampires, not just everything she thought she should know.

So here she was, stuck watching him, ignorant and on edge and unable to hide it any longer. She was too tired and too drained, the exhaustion dragging her down and slowing her reactions. Forget refusing to defend herself from him at the cost of his life - if he lost control now she didn't think she'd be **able** to defend herself.

He made another turn, his fingernails dragging along the wall as he walked, beating out a tattoo that only set her hackles further on edge.

"They're not coming," he growled, his pace picking up. "We need to get out of here."

"You've already tried the door. Several times." She kept her voice even, not wanting to antagonise him, not when he was this unstable. "There's no other way out."

He spun on his heel to glare at her, only dropping his eyes when she pressed her back more firmly against the wall, her fingers tightening instinctively around the handle of her weapon. She swallowed, forcing her fingers to relax. King wouldn't hurt her if he was in his right mind. She had to keep telling herself that.

She'd just wasn't sure that he **was** in his right mind anymore.

She took a deep breath, closing her eyes and trying to centre herself.

"Don't fall asleep!"

She started, rubbing her hands across her eyes and briefly considered lying, but there was no use denying it. She couldn't stay awake for much longer, and she fucking **hurt**, her nose still puffy and swollen, making it difficult to breathe.

She ignored it, instead asking him tentatively, "How are you...?"

"How am I doing?" he asked, bright and bitter. "Well, let's think about it for a moment. I'm a vampire again, after almost three years off the juice. The thirst is getting more and more difficult to control, and the woman I -"

He broke off, swallowing down whatever he'd been about to say. And then he was back to pacing, fingernails scratching against the wall.

Maybe to make sure he didn't move away from it.

Chills ran up and down her spine, and they weren't the good sort. Her scalp was prickling, the hackles on the back of her neck rising. Telling herself that it was just instinct, a biological response to a perceived threat, didn't help when the threat in question was King.

"I can smell your blood." The brightness had gone from his voice, but not the bitterness. This time it was dark, overlaid with things she didn't want to examine too closely. Hunger was only part of it. "Do you have any fucking idea how it feels to be able to smell you and only be able to think about how hungry I am." He let out a harsh chuckle, one that was stripped of any amusement. "You should have used that knife when you had the chance."

Her heart skipped a beat hearing the barely suppressed anger in his voice. She also hadn't missed the implication that she wouldn't have a chance now.

He paused in his pacing, turning to look at her again. She could see the indecision across his face and then he took two steps towards her, making her shy away from him instinctively before she could think better of it. "Give me the knife."

"No."

His lips curled up, revealing his fangs. "Give. Me. The. Knife."

She shook her head mutely, refusing to give up on him the way he seemed to be giving up on himself. He lunged for her, but she was expecting it or something like it. She didn't use the knife, not even when he gripped tightly hold of her shoulders and pushed his face so close to hers that she could see the speckles of brown still lurking behind the gold in the depths of his irises.

He hesitated, conflicted, and then he grabbed for her wrist, hissing as his fingers brushed against the silver blade she held.

She threw it away, ignoring it as it clattered against the floor several feet distant from them. He stared at her, stunned and appalled.

"What the fu-"

She reached up and caught hold of his face, sliding her palms over his cheeks and holding him there when he tried to pull away, staring straight into his eyes and refusing to back down. "Do you have any idea what it would do to me to have to kill you?"

"Abby -"

"No." She put as much force into the word as she could and it stopped him in his tracks, the expression on his face relaxing into the kind of desolation that broke her heart all over again. But he stopped fighting to get away from her, and that was what she wanted, needed. "I promised that I wouldn't let you hurt me. I didn't promise that you could use me to commit fucking suicide. Or that I'd stand by and watch you kill yourself. For God's sake..." Her voice cracked. "You're all I have and I am **not** going to lose you. So you don't fucking well get to quit on me now, you hear me?"

For a second, she thought he was actually going to argue with her, but even with the vampirism virus coursing through his veins King was smarter than that. He nodded. Reluctantly, maybe even a little despairingly, but he nodded.

He touched the back of her hand briefly, the light pressure of it pushing her palm more firmly against his cheek for a moment, and then he moved back, her fingers slipping away from his skin.

He went back to pacing, his hand once again pressed hard against the stone work, letting it anchor him in a way that Abby couldn't.

She watched him for a long, long time before she finally reached for the knife again.


	4. Chapter 4

-o-

She couldn't fight the exhaustion any more and finally she slept, on and off, falling into a light doze that left her aware on some level of King's movements. So when he stopped abruptly she was startled back into wakefulness, although it took an uncomfortably long period of time before she could focus on him properly.

He was standing in the middle of their makeshift cell, his face tilted up towards the ceiling above them.

"Someone's coming."

She blinked at him blearily for a second, her mind struggling to catch up, and then she slowly pushed herself to her feet, her bruised muscles protesting.

King had already headed towards the door and she followed him, struggling to keep some distance between them when she was still fighting the need to touch him, to reach out and make sure he was still with her, in every sense of the word.

"How many?" she asked, not sure whether he'd have an answer for her. While she knew that vampiric senses were enhanced, they'd never been able to determine by how much and she'd never wanted to ask King directly, knowing how much he hated talking about the specifics of his time with Danica. He much preferred painting it in broad - and coarse - brush strokes.

He paused for a second, listening intently, and then shook his head, making sure to keep his distance.

He was a lot better at it than she was.

She strained her ears, struggling to pick up what he'd already heard. She was about to give up and simply ask him when she finally caught it - the faint sound of footsteps outside their door. She moved back several paces, glancing around desperately for somewhere she could stay out of sight, just in case, but there was nowhere.

In the end, it didn't matter. The door was flung open before she could react.

She'd been hoping against hope for Caulder or Sullivan to pull a miracle out of the hat and actually track the pair of them down, satellite or no satellite, but today was just full of disappointment. She didn't recognise the man in front of her, but she knew the type, even if the gun in his hand hadn't already given him away.

Familiar. And he wasn't alone - another lurked behind him, hovering nervously as he eyed her and King. She shouldn't feel as weirdly satisfied about that as she did.

The first one took a step into the room, scowling and gesturing at her with his weapon, forcing her further back, away from the door. His eyes darted between her and King, and while he couldn't have missed the fact that King was now a vampire, he didn't look at all surprised. He must have expected it, which told her that he wasn't just any familiar, but one owned by the vampire who had turned King.

He should have been more careful, but perhaps he spent too much time in the presence of well-fed predators and had grown lax and fat on their leavings. He turned his back on King, and that was the last mistake he ever made.

She knew that some vampires were able to move a little faster than humans, but King moved faster than she'd ever seen him, grabbing hold of the first familiar as soon as his attention was distracted. He yanked the man's head to one side and Abby was already moving, heading towards the other familiar as he let out a yell and pointed his weapon at King, before she realised what King was going to do.

Stiff or not, her momentum knocked the second familiar down and she had the knife at his throat before he could get back up again, holding it there and keeping her eyes fixed on his face. It meant she didn't have to watch as King killed his companion, but it meant she saw every single, horrific second of it reflected on the face of her prisoner.

The first familiar kept screaming, his voice dying down to a gurgle as King continued to feed. And she could hear King, growling low in the back of his throat, the sound clear even over the death throes of his victim.

No. Not victim. She couldn't think of it in those terms, not and stay sane. He'd asked for it. Familiars never did have a very long life expectancy, no matter what they thought when they signed up.

The gurgles died off slowly, first to a low moan and then to silence, but she kept her focus on the man beneath her, pressing her knife into his neck hard enough to cause small beads of blood to well up, red against his skin. One drop grew big enough to slide across his throat and drip down towards the floor, and her skin felt tight, her head too big for her body, as she tried desperately not to think about what was happening only a few feet behind her.

The body hit the floor behind her and only then did she move, pushing herself slowly to her feet as she staggered away from the man now shaking and weeping on the floor, begging for the mercy his master hadn't shown Carruthers or Henderson. Or King.

"Please," he burbled, looking between Abby and King as though either of them was supposed to give a fuck. "Don't kill me."

She'd kicked his gun halfway across the room before she'd pinned him down, and she picked it up now, tucking it in the waistband of her pants before she turned back to face him. King had moved as well - he was now standing over the familiar she'd taken down. It was instinctual to take a few steps forward before she slowed, an automatic response to the equation of vampire plus human equals threat, but she couldn't bring herself to stop King, not if he needed this. Not if it was a choice between him and the bastard on the ground.

She just couldn't bring herself to watch.

But King didn't feed on him, not right away. He simply reached down and hauled the snivelling familiar to his feet, picking him up easily. He'd always been strong, even before he'd been turned, six foot two of sheer muscle. He slammed the familiar into the wall, holding him there while he stared at him, full of predatory intent.

"Where are we?" King growled, shaking the familiar when he didn't answer immediately. The threat was implicit in every move he made, not veiled behind good humour the way it always had been. "And why the fuck did you come back?"

The familiar was gibbering in terror, his teeth chattering together hard enough for Abby to hear it from where she stood, but King didn't let up, baring his fangs and snarling until the familiar finally caved.

"We were told to collect you," he stammered, staring at King, half-hypnotised with fear. "Once you'd killed her." He didn't even spare Abby a glance, which didn't seem to sit well with King. "Bring you back if you..." He swallowed, hard and heavy. "If you survived the biological weapon."

He meant Daystar. It was strange to hear of it in those terms instead of as salvation, the way the Nightstalkers thought of it, but then it hadn't saved Carruthers or Henderson.

"Why?" she asked. He tore his attention away from King long enough to give her a blank look, his wits obviously shattered.

"She asked you a question," King said mildly, but his fingers dug more tightly into the man's throat, causing him to gasp and choke.

"It's killing vamps everywhere," he finally got out past the grip of King's fingers. "But not these ones. So if they turn anyone, there's a chance their offspring will survive. And they need the numbers."

King nodded thoughtfully, the look in his eyes growing distant as he puzzled it out, and then he twisted his fingers, snapping the familiar's neck as easily as Henderson's had snapped.

The sound went through Abby like a thunderbolt, and she watched wordlessly the familiar's corpse crumpled to the floor. When she met King's eyes again, his were defiant, just daring her to say something. She swallowed down the bile that had started to rise in her throat and stared at him for a long moment, picking her next words with the utmost care.

"Does he have a phone on him?" she asked.

-o-

Thank God for familiars and their expensive little toys - the phone she'd fished out of the dead familiar's pockets had come with a range of apps, including GPS. Whether that was because he'd got lost a lot or because his masters wanted to know where he was, twenty-four seven, she didn't know and cared even less, but at least it meant that Sullivan didn't have to do anything clever with cell phone towers to find out the location of this particular hellhole. He wasn't anywhere near the hacker that Hedges had been.

When she finally got hold of Caulder, she hadn't given him the chance to get a word in edgeways, talking over his relief tersely and with as few words as she could get away with. Her hands were shaking as she held the phone up to her ear, and she limited herself to telling him where they were, that King needed medical assistance and to bring a van, something with blacked out windows if he could get it. He hadn't asked any questions, not after she'd told him that Henderson and Carruthers were dead. He'd just gone quiet for a moment, and then told her that he'd be there.

Caulder was far from stupid and he certainly wasn't naive - he probably already had his suspicions about just how King was injured, but she couldn't bear to confirm them over the telephone. The questions would come later - there was no doubt about that - and there'd be plenty of time then to explain exactly how fucked up their op had gone.

She'd just have to make sure she was ready for it - as if she could ever be ready for something like this.

When she'd finished talking to Caulder she ventured upstairs, the familiar's gun a welcome weight in her hand as she searched all of the rooms one by one, limping slightly as she moved through the building on bruised and bloodied feet. She found a sink and drank straight from the faucet, gulping down the ice-cold water gratefully. She'd regret it later, when it sat in her stomach like lead, but for now she barely noticed the flat, metallic taste of it as it rushed through the ancient pipes. All she cared about was how it eased her throat, how it finally satisfied the thirst that roared through her, making it difficult to think.

Now they were both quenched, and that was a thought to shudder at.

The sun was already up when she finally made it to the ground floor, and she cursed the sight of it under her breath - as if she didn't have enough to deal with already. It meant that King had to stay downstairs, trapped in the dark, while she secured the perimeter, and he wasn't any happier about that than she was.

He was less happy, in fact. At least up here, she could stop for a moment and catch her breath, let the horror of their situation wash over her. Over her and then ebb away - she couldn't afford to cling to it, not when they were a hell of a long way from being out of the woods.

She focused on the practicalities, letting the act of planning push everything else back down again - the fear, the worry, the grief. Getting King into the truck was going to be fun. She should have told Caulder to bring blankets, something to cover King's head, hide him from view, and not just from the sun's rays. She should have warned Caulder what to expect, but how could she when she could barely find the words herself?

She should have... She should have...

First, clear the rooms, then fall apart. It sounded simpler than it was.

When she was sure that they were as safe as they could be, she settled down to watch for Caulder from the window. Maybe it was cowardice to leave King down there with two dead bodies, but then at least down there he was safe and she was...

She refused to think 'safe', but she'd never been that good at lying to herself. Instead she leaned against the window frame, positioning herself so that she could see out but stay hidden. Her body felt like lead, weighed down and uncooperative, and she was so punch-drunk with exhaustion that she almost missed the unfamiliar truck turning the corner. She tensed up, her finger tightening automatically on the trigger, but she should have realised that it was the cavalry - it was big, black and unsubtle, just the way King liked them.

Thinking about King just made the hurt flare through her again, like the numbness was wearing off. It prickled through her skin like frostbitten fingers and burned at the back of her eyes. She took in deep, shaky breath, letting it out slowly until her hands stopped shaking and her heart rate had slowed down to the point where it was just racing. Practicalities. She focused on those again, compiling a little list in her head. It was short and brutal, and not particularly comforting. First get King into the truck, then get him back to base, then get him cured. Easy as one, two, three.

The cure would work. It had to - the alternative was unthinkable, and so Abby wouldn't think it.


	5. Chapter 5

Sullivan had spent ten years in the military before he'd run into an enemy that didn't die unless you put a silver bullet in them. He'd seen his fair share of fuck ups, engagements gone awry, intel that wasn't worth the fucking paper it was written on.

Figured that the Nightstalkers would have their own version of FUBAR, but he had to hand it to them. When they fucked up, they really fucked up.

"What the hell happened?" he demanded of Whistler, trying to get her attention as she rooted through the back of the truck before yanking the tarp off the top of his weapons stash. He damned well better not get stopped by cops on the way back, not when 'in plain view' really fucking meant it, but he suspected that wasn't why she was bitching about the windows not being tinted. It didn't help that she looked like three shades of warmed over shit - her face was puffy and bruised and she moved like someone had kicked the crap out of her, probably because someone had. If the cops stopped him with her looking like that, he'd be fucked even before they spotted the weapons in the back.

"Henderson and Carruthers are dead," she stated, as cold blooded as always. Like she thought Caulder wouldn't already have told him that. She didn't even have the fucking decency to look at him while she said it, heading back into the abandoned office block without a single backwards glance.

He trotted after her, swallowing down his resentment at being dismissed so easily. That didn't mean he was going to let it go entirely - so what if she didn't take any shit, except maybe from King? It was about time she learnt the same about him.

"And?"

She paused in the doorway, one hand pressing against the door so hard that her knuckles turned white as she finally turned back to look at him.

"They turned King."

Jesus. He took a second, examined the horror of the thought and then let it go. King was an asshole, but he didn't deserve this. No one did, but there wasn't much point in fucking grieving over it. Life was a bitch and so, it seemed, was Whistler.

He compartmentalised it, slammed the lid down, got moving.

"What's your plan?"

"Plan?" She stopped, turning on him, too close for comfort - hers if she stepped any closer. "Get him back to base, give him the cure. That clear enough for you, or do you need a map?"

He jerked to a stop, eyeing her warily. Snapping wasn't her style, no matter how cold she could be sometimes and no matter how bad she was hurting. Now that he took the time to look at her - really look at her - she was so tightly wound she was almost vibrating with it. It didn't sit well on her - Whistler was normally the poster child for cool. In fact, more than once he'd thought she had ice running in her veins instead of blood - that would explain how she'd avoided being eaten by their less than friendly neighbourhood vamps.

But she sure as hell wasn't calm now. As well as being puffy and bruised, her face was dirty, smeared and stained even though it looked like she'd tried to wash the worst of it off, and her eyes were bloodshot, wide and wet.

Shit, she'd been crying and he'd never been able to deal with women crying. His ex-wife could testify to that.

He hesitated, searching in vain for the words to say, but it was pointless. Whistler was already moving again, like she couldn't stop or she'd start thinking, and he got that. He'd seen the same thing in different faces in the field, usually when they knew they were about to get their asses shot off.

He turned his head to look at Caulder, who had followed them into the building, but Caulder had hesitated as well, the expression on his face conflicted. Sullivan couldn't blame him; the newly vamped were vicious fuckers at the best of times, the hunger overwhelming any morality they might have had as human. He couldn't really see that King would be any exception. He wasn't sure the man had any morals at the best of times.

Except... Whistler still hadn't been eaten and that didn't make any kind of sense. Maybe she'd been smart enough to stay away from King for once, kept him locked down under the threat of her staking his ass. But somehow he doubted it. She'd never seemed that smart when it came to King.

He shot another quick look at Caulder, raising his eyebrows in a distinct 'what the fuck' way, and this time Caulder sighed, something heavy and heartfelt. Damn, looked like it was down to him to make the decision and he fucking hated doing that, but before he could open his mouth, put voice to his disbelief, Caulder simply shifted his bag to his other hand and followed in Whistler's wake, shoulders set stoically as he braced himself for whatever the hell they were going to find.

Shit. He'd never expected to live long but he'd been banking on not dying as a result of friendly fire, and it wasn't like he and King were friends anyway. But if Whistler had finally lost her ever-loving mind, it looked like he was the one who needed to keep a sense of proportion about things.

He drew his weapon and followed after the pair of them.

Whistler led them down to the basement of the building, where two corpses were neatly stacked outside the door. The unlocked door. It didn't reassure him any that one of the corpses had its throat ripped out, but his questioning look at Whistler was completely ignored. Figured. He sure as hell wasn't going to holster his weapon, no matter how hard Whistler frowned when she saw it. He stared her down and she looked away first, pushing the door open with her fingertips before walking gingerly into the room.

The caution she showed was at least something, and he was relieved to see that it extended to Whistler keeping her distance from King. Or maybe it was King keeping his distance from her. He couldn't tell which, but either worked as far as Sullivan was concerned.

Of course, all of that was a secondary concern to the sight of King, tall, pale, and well and truly under the fang.

He'd seen vampires before, of course. Even up close and personal. But it was somehow different when the vampire in question was someone he used to know. He didn't miss the fact that King didn't have that starved, newly vamped look about him, half-cadaver and all pissy attitude.

At least it meant that King didn't seem that interested in ripping anybody's throat out - anybody **else's** throat out - which was a plus in Sullivan's book. It wasn't difficult to figure out why - the corpse outside the door was mute testimony the fact that King had already fed, but that didn't mean he wasn't still hungry. Sullivan had seen the newly turned before now and it always ended the same way. Once the vampire virus had finished destroying their haemoglobin, they were frenzied with thirst, driven insane by it. In short, they were brutal, violent killers, reduced to little more than animals until they'd fed until satiated.

"What happened?" he asked again, because he wasn't willing to let it go, not yet and maybe not ever. "Henderson and Carruthers are dead..." He made a little 'give' gesture, scowling when Whistler and King exchanged a long look instead of answering his question straight away.

It had a distinct air of them comparing stories, and that wasn't doing anything to lower Sullivan's blood pressure any. Or make him think this was a situation he wanted to be anywhere near.

Once again, it was Whistler who shut him down. "We need to get King back to HQ," she said. Her tone said that she wasn't prepared to discuss it any further, but there was no way Sullivan was going to let it slide as easily as that.

"You want us to get into a small, enclosed space with someone who's just been turned into a vampire?" He didn't bother to hide his disbelief. He expected Whistler to bristle, come back at him with a curse or fist, but she let him down on that front, simply staring at him blankly and saying nothing.

King shifted position, the soles of his boots scraping against the floor. When Sullivan glanced across at him, his fingers flexing automatically around the butt of his gun, King wasn't paying him any attention. All of his attention was focused on Whistler, and Sullivan wasn't convinced that was a good thing. Maybe that was why he persisted, that and the fact that he really didn't fancy his chances being shut up somewhere small with a new vamp the size of King.

"Damn it, Whistler..."

He took a single step towards her, stopping dead in his tracks when King let out a low sound, something rumbling and full of menace. The hairs on the back of Sullivan's neck rose, prickles running up and down his spine as he turned his head slowly, gauging the distance between him and King. He was pretty sure he could shoot King before King closed in on him.

He just wasn't certain.

"He killed Carruthers and Henderson in front of me," Whistler said suddenly, her voice quiet and lacking its normal hard, icy edge. She sounded very young, lost and afraid, but Sullivan wasn't willing to take it on trust, not when there were still goose bumps running up and down his arms, and not when he wasn't entirely sure which 'he' Whistler was referring to. For all he knew, she could have meant King had done the killing, and the thought had his palm tightening again around the butt of his gun, fingers sliding surreptitiously back down towards the trigger. "I thought he was going to kill me, but..."

King shifted again and Sullivan watched him out of the corner of his eye, wary of any sudden moves. But all King had done was look away from Whistler, as though he didn't want to hear what came next, or didn't want to see it.

Whistler swallowed, her hands unconsciously rubbing at her arms where she had goose bumps to match Sullivan's own.

"He..."

"He turned me, locked me in a room with Abby." King sounded bored, and for one brief, fiery moment, Sullivan hated him for it before King's next words ripped that feeling away again. "He wanted me to kill Abby, or Abby to kill me." King shrugged, still not looking at Whistler.

Of course, he wasn't looking at Sullivan either, which was a plus.

"Why?" Sullivan didn't try to soften the question. There was no point pussyfooting around it.

"He hates us," Whistler explained. "He wanted us to suffer. And..."

"And this was the worst thing he could do," King completed when the silence stretched out because Whistler couldn't - or wouldn't. "Got to say, it's not lacking in imagination. Several points for style, minus several million for being a dick."

Only King could joke about something like this, but then he was a Grade A dick as well. Nothing King would do should surprise him. But when he looked more closely at King, King's mouth was pinched, stress lines radiating from the corners of his eyes. He wasn't anywhere near as laid-back as he was trying to project. He was freaking the fuck out, and Sullivan supposed he couldn't blame him for that.

After all, he was freaking Sullivan the fuck out, too.

King caught him watching, his eyes flashing angrily for a moment before he damped down whatever he was feeling and raised one sardonic eyebrow in Sullivan's direction.

"You holding it together?" Sullivan asked him roughly, not sure why he was even bothering.

"Well, it could be worse," King said. "I could have been turned by a deranged harpy again. On the other hand, I'm now forced to question my sexuality."

He sounded like King, but Sullivan wasn't reassured by the strange light in his eye or the strain showing clearly in his voice. He hesitated, debating whether the risk of transporting King back to HQ in his current state was worth it. But in the end, there was only one possible outcome.

If he didn't agree to this, he was pretty damned sure Whistler would shoot him.

-o-

King hadn't ripped any of their throats out because, as Sullivan had already guessed, he'd ripped out the throat on the corpse Sullivan had seen. A familiar, Whistler explained, only she hadn't shared that little nugget of information until they were already half way back to base, and only then because Sullivan wouldn't let King's need to feed, and what that could mean for them personally, drop.

She'd lapsed into silence after she'd admitted it, staring out of the window at the early morning streets passing by and refusing to engage Sullivan any further. He'd always wondered what the hell she saw in King and now he knew - she could be just as big a dick as he was. The only thing that stopped him from verbally ripping her a new one was Caulder's intervention. Laid-back Norwegian or not, the man didn't take any shit, even if it was sometimes difficult to take him seriously in those sweaters.

King had stayed uncharacteristically silent in back, although that could have had something to do with being muffled under several layers of tarp. Even silent, he'd hardly stayed out of mind as far as Sullivan was concerned.

He only relaxed once they had King safely stashed in their small, temporary infirmary. It wasn't ideal - they'd never expected to deal with any casualties when they'd chosen this as their temporary base of operations - but there was only one door in or out and King was far enough away from Sullivan this time that he was pretty sure he'd be able to shoot first and take King down if needed.

Somehow he knew that King hadn't missed that. Neither had Whistler, but of the two of them, she was the only one who seemed concerned.

Caulder was fussing with vials and syringes, muttering to himself under his breath. Sullivan tuned him out, all of his attention focused on King. King, on the other hand, seemed to have tuned everything out - he'd settled himself on the single examining table and was staring up at the ceiling, his eyes unfocused. But the aura of calm he was projecting was clearly fake. There was sweat beading his forehead and upper lip, and his fingers were twitching, flexing and then relaxing over and over again. The only thing he wasn't doing was mouthing off, and that was just another sign of how fucked up things were.

Whistler wasn't moving at all. She'd settled herself within arm's reach of King, which was a real mistake as far as Sullivan was concerned, but she'd wrapped her arms around her knees and was focusing on King and only King.

That lost look was back in her eye, and Sullivan looked away, uncomfortably aware of just how young she was.

"You feeding recently will have complicated things," Caulder said, tapping the side of the syringe with his nail, which meant he missed King's flinch. Sullivan hadn't, but in the grand scheme of things it didn't mean that much. "On the one hand, it means we do not have to focus as much on controlling your thirst, at least not in the short term. But on the other -"

"I'm going to be spending the next three days puking my guts up," King completed. He was aiming for bored again, but he missed it, the tension clear in his body and written across his face. "Been there, done that, got the T-shirt, and a shitty one it was, too."

"Well, that was because it was spandex." Whistler gave a small half-smile, ignoring the fact that she'd startled Sullivan. He didn't think he'd ever heard Whistler crack a joke before, certainly not one that sounded like one of King's. Or any other kind, come to that. Maybe he'd imagined it - her smile faded as rapidly as it had appeared, but it seemed enough for King. His fingers finally stopped their incessant flexing and he turned his head to face her, stretching his fingers out towards her, a barely-there gesture that she seemed to understand anyway.

She reached across to him, wrapping her fingers around his and squeezing gently.

Huh. He'd wondered, but he hadn't thought he was right. And even if he was right, it was still a stupid fucking thing to do.

"This will sting a little," Caulder warned, leaning over King, the needle catching the light for a moment before it plunged into King's arm. King flinched again, his fingers tightening around Whistler's, knuckles whitening.

But he stayed irreverent, at least on the surface. "Doesn't really compare to having my throat savaged," he said. "But on the other hand, ow."

Caulder let out a small huff of laughter, sliding the needle back out with practised ease. "I will get you a bucket."

"Thank you. You're a peach."

Sullivan settled against the door jamb, crossing his arms and watching King and Whistler over the top of them. He was planning to stay there for the long haul when Caulder beckoned him out of the room. He followed reluctantly, casting a last look back at the couple in the corner.

"Is it safe to leave her alone with him?"

Caulder gave him a long, steady look. "Did you listen to their debriefing?" he asked, and Sullivan wondered irritably when he'd started to pick up the lingo of warfare, or stopped assuming that Sullivan knew more about it than he did. "They were locked together in a room for more than two days while their captors waited for him to kill her. That obviously did not happen, and I fail to see why you think it would happen now."

"Experience," Sullivan grunted. "That what you wanted to talk to me about?"

Caulder shook his head, his expression turning even more morose than usual. "Did you hear what else Whistler said?"

Sullivan gave a little helpless shoulder shrug, not sure what he was supposed to have missed.

"Daystar didn't work."

He'd picked up on that, but other than the fact it was going to make things a little more interesting, he didn't get why it was so important. He'd never been comfortable relying on a weapon he couldn't see or feel, so if they needed to start using traditional weapons again, he had no objection.

But what he hadn't picked up on before now was that Caulder wasn't surprised by Daystar's failure. Thinking back, though, certain things started to make a little more sense, like the fact that sometimes they'd had to stake vamps after deploying Daystar, although that was usually because they just hadn't been dying quickly enough for Sullivan's taste, by which he meant that they hadn't dropped dead instantly. Caulder had seemed interested in that at the time, but again Sullivan hadn't paid it much mind. Dead was dead as far as he was concerned - whether that was at the end of a stick or a biological weapon made little difference to him. "That why you wanted samples?"

Caulder shrugged, suddenly looking old. "It was always a risk. Sommerfield engineered the antivirus to adapt to Drake's blood, knowing that that would provide a sound basis for attacking many of the different strains of vampire virus that have mutated over the years since he first founded the vampire race."

Yada, yada, yada. Sullivan had never met one of the tech guys yet who didn't like yammering on about their particular fields of study, and he was including all of the docs working alongside the Nightstalkers in that. But there was one word in Caulder's technobabble he honed in on. "Many," he repeated, watching Caulder's reaction keenly. "But not all?"

"No. Not all. Viruses adapt. That is why they survive, and the vampire virus is no different. It was always a possibility that some vampires would be immune to Daystar, and that they would spread that immunity. It is no different from MRSA or other infections that are now resistant to our best antibiotics. It only takes a few bacteria to survive due to mutation and then..."

"And then we've got a fucking problem." There was more - Sullivan could tell that from the expression on Caulder's face, and he let out an impatient breath, wishing - not for the first time - that the people around him would just get to the damn point already. "What else?"

"Sommerfield engineered Blade's serum as well the mechanism to deliver it. She also designed the antivirus used to cure King and Abraham Whistler."

"And?" Sullivan asked impatiently, although he had a sinking feeling that he was beginning to understand what Caulder was getting at.

"Daystar built upon that work. If Daystar is no longer effective against all strains of the vampirism virus..."

"And if King got bitten by someone Daystar didn't kill, there's no guarantee that the cure will work on him the way it has in the past?"

Caulder nodded, his expression grim.

"Are you going to tell them?"

Caulder gave him a look. "Neither of them is stupid, Sullivan," he said, his tone slightly exasperated, or as exasperated as Caulder ever got. "And both of them have been fighting vampires for longer than you or I. I would be surprised if the thought had not already occurred to them."

Somehow, Sullivan doubted that, and not because he had any doubts about how smart King or Whistler were. He didn't believe that Whistler was thinking coherently about anything at this point - he'd finally pinpointed the look in her eyes that had been bothering him. He'd seen it before, more times than he'd cared to admit. She was shell-shocked, still reeling and not yet at the point where she was assimilating data into the whole picture. King, he was less sure of. There was a brain behind that mouth, but he'd seen denial often enough in the field to know that there was a good chance that King was suffering from it, too.

"Okay," he said, nodding slightly as he pulled his thoughts into order. "No point in borrowing trouble. We'll just have to cross that bridge if we come to it."

And with their luck, he thought dourly, the bridge would already be burning and they'd all fucking drown.


	6. Chapter 6

King had been right about throwing up. He should know, of course, given that he'd been through this once already, but it didn't make it any easier to listen to him.

Abby had no idea whether or not this was normal. She barely remembered the first time. She hadn't needed to pay attention back then, not when King had been nothing more to her than just another soon-to-be-dead vamp. The only reason she hadn't killed him on sight was because Sommerfield needed a test subject, and the way she'd seen it, King was as good an option as any other. He'd even wanted to die, goading her - unsuccessfully - into killing him. As soon as she'd got him back to base, he'd stopped being her problem, at least until he'd come out the other side of Sommerfield's cure and Sommerfield had no fucking idea what to do with him.

Strange what a difference three years could make. Or the three months it had been since they'd taken down the Talos Clan.

Or the three days of antivirus treatment King had already undergone - and even Abby, with her limited knowledge, could see it wasn't working as well as it had the first time around.

If she wasn't such a fucking coward, she'd tackle Caulder about it, but she couldn't bring herself to do it. As long as she wasn't asking questions, she could hold onto the hope: she was just being pessimistic; her memory was faulty and it had taken this long before; she was out of her depth, but Caulder knew what he was doing. Only, she'd never really been one for denial. The possibilities preyed on her, no matter how upbeat she tried to stay for King and Zoë's sake.

She didn't get much sleep. She couldn't sleep - when she closed her eyes, it wasn't Sommerfield's body she saw, or Hedges or Dex. It wasn't even Carruthers or Henderson's - it might make her the kind of bitch Carruthers had accused her of being, but she barely thought about them. It was King's face she saw when she dreamed, the look on it as he fought to escape and failed. The look on it as he'd come close to dying, blood running down his neck and a vampire virus starting to eat its way through his veins.

Yeah, after waking up from one of those nightmares there was no going back to sleep. Not for her.

She spent every waking hour haunting the infirmary or, when Caulder finally chased her out, with Zoë, trying to make up for King's absence in the little girl's life. Trying to make up for a lot of things, if she was being honest, and if she was honest then she also had to admit that she was failing. King was a surprisingly big hole to fill, and she'd never had a chance in hell of filling the hole that Sommerfield had left. This whole parenting gig was a complete mystery to her - how the hell was she supposed to deal with an orphaned six-year-old's fears of abandonment when she didn't even know how to deal with her own fears? She was reduced to mouthing platitudes and trying not to outright lie, meeting Zoë's wide and worried eyes with what she hoped was a reassuring smile and telling her that, yes, of course King was getting better. That he'd be up and about any day now.

Any day now.

But he wasn't, and the fear just kept gnawing away inside her as she watched him toss and turn restlessly, the fever raging inside his body. Hour after hour passed as she sat by his bedside, giving him the same reassuring smile she'd put together for Zoë when he was awake and trying, unsuccessfully, to hold the fear at bay when he wasn't.

He wasn't looking good, the sickness taking its toll. He couldn't keep human food down and he was so dehydrated now that Caulder had finally resorted to a saline drip. Maybe it was her imagination, but he seemed to be growing thinner day by day. His cheeks were hollow and there were dark circles underneath his eyes, which only served to accentuate the pallor of his skin. But not all of his paleness could be put down to the fact that Sommerfield's cure was doing a number on him, leaving him sick and shaking.

He still had fangs. That was the most visible sign that the vampirism virus still had him in its grasp, but it wasn't the only one and it was rapidly reaching the point where not even Abby could wilfully ignore it any longer.

It hurt to see him like this. She felt so fucking useless. He couldn't even escape from his situation while he slept, which meant that she couldn't, either. He twitched and shivered as he dreamed, and she knew enough to know that none of his dreams were good.

Tonight was no exception. King was dreaming again, his fingers curling against the crisp white hospital sheets as his brow furrowed and his eyes darting to and fro beneath his closed lids. He was panting in his sleep, his lips parted as he struggled to breathe, and his fangs flashed with each harsh, inward-drawn breath.

The sight repulsed and fascinated her in equal measure, but she pushed it down, unable to resist touching him even as sick, as vampiric as he still was. Even if she was reduced to smoothing the sweat-dampened hair back from his brow repetitively, trying to be comforting when she'd never been any good at that, it was better than nothing. It gave her something to do, something other than sitting there helplessly.

King muttered something, low in his throat, as she slid her fingers through his hair, easing apart the knotted strands. He felt so fragile, his skin paper thin and the curves of his skull clear under his scalp. Before now she would never have believed that she'd think of King as fragile. Not King, who was solid and real, a survivor in every sense of the word. His skin was burning hot - she thought it a bad sign, but maybe she was wrong. Maybe it meant that his body was fighting off the infection, that the fever was building before it broke. But no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't keep hold of her optimism.

Not when Caulder's expression was so grim.

Her fingers moved lower, tracing the line of his sideburn tenderly. It wasn't the kind of touch she should allow herself, but it was difficult to resist brushing her thumb gently over his cheekbone, feeling him settle at the touch. She lost herself in it, letting reality fade for a moment as she gathered hope around her, burying herself in denial, and maybe that was why it took a second for her to realise that his eyes were half-open.

He was watching her.

Her heart skipped a guilty beat, as though she'd been caught doing something she shouldn't. She had, but when she started to pull back, his hand shot out, grabbing hold of her wrist.

He wasn't gentle about it, gripping it so hard that she'd have bruises. She frowned, already opening her mouth to protest when she realised what was wrong with this picture.

There was no recognition in his gaze. None.

Some instinct told her to freeze, or maybe that was simply shock. Whatever the reason, she didn't struggle when he tried to bring her hand closer. Instead, she locked all of her muscles down tight, concentrating on becoming an immovable object, something he couldn't shift even if he wanted to, fighting back the panic as his eyes flared golden-yellow.

King's lips parted, his teeth suddenly white and gleaming in the darkness of his mouth, and she clenched her fist, ready to let it fly, ready to punch him in the face if that was what it took to get him to let go of her.

But before she could, his eyes cleared, recognition finally dawning, and he stared blankly at her for a second before he finally let go, releasing his grip so suddenly that she rocked back in her seat.

Her wrist ached and her heart was pounding, a fast and furious beat as she stared down at him, still reeling. He stared back for a long moment, the expression on his face settling into something impassive and unreadable, when normally King was the world's worst liar, everything - everything - he felt showing on his face.

Nothing was showing now.

King was the first one to look away, shame finally blossoming on his face. It was followed swiftly by anger and fear, a flurry of emotions she couldn't track, even knowing King as well as she did.

Or as well as she thought she did.

She rubbed at her wrist, only stopping when she spotted the pain flashing through his eyes. She let her fingers drop awkwardly down into her lap where they curled helplessly as she struggled to find something to say. But it was King who broke the silence first, giving voice to what was probably his greatest fear.

"You okay?"

Did I hurt you, he meant, and Abby nodded her head mutely, not taking her eyes off him. "I'm fine," she said finally when non-verbal communication didn't seem provide enough reassurance, but from the twist of King's face, she still wasn't sure that he believed her.

"I... I was dreaming of Danica," he explained, but it wasn't rocket science to figure out that that wasn't the whole truth, or to know that both of them were well aware of his evasiveness. "I..." He wiped his hand over his face, dragging the skin down even more.

"I shouldn't have -" she started to say, breaking off when she realised she had no idea how to end that sentence, but maybe King knew her too well, too.

"You probably don't want to be around me when I'm asleep," he said, refusing to look at her. Instead he talked to the ceiling, like that was going to do any good. "I'm not always... I don't always know where I am when I wake up."

That would have been the smart thing to do, but it felt too close to abandoning him for Abby's peace of mind. She struggled again to find the words to say, but again the right words escaped her. She was left staring at him in silence, any argument she might have had melted away by the bruises around her wrist and the racing of her heart.

"Everything okay here?"

She should be glad to hear Sullivan's voice, even if part of her resented his presence, but the relief she felt seemed like a betrayal. But she couldn't deny that his arrival broke whatever tension still lingered in the room, nor could she pass up the opportunity to back away from King slowly, only turning to look at Sullivan when there was a safe distance between them.

King watched her go, his face expressionless.

Sullivan hadn't missed that something was amiss. His eyes darted between her and King, measuring and assessing the way they always did, but she couldn't tell what Sullivan was thinking. Unlike King, she'd never been able to read him. Sullivan played his cards even closer to his chest than the rest of them did.

"Nightmare," King said eventually, but only after the silence had stretched out to something uncomfortable. King's voice was gravelly, hoarse and ill-used. When she looked at him now, that blankness had disappeared from his face, leaving exhaustion behind.

He looked the most normal he had for days, and for a second she started to doubt herself, wondering if she'd misread the situation.

Sullivan was nodding thoughtfully when she looked back at him. He was looking straight at King, but something in his eyes told her that he wasn't entirely buying what King was selling. Or maybe she was projecting that as well, reading things into Sullivan's expression that just weren't there. When Sullivan switched his gaze to Abby, the look on his face didn't change.

"Got a minute?" he asked, jerking his head towards the infirmary door, making it clear that whatever he wanted to say to her, he wanted to say it in private.

She nodded mutely, rising and following him out with one last, backward look at King.

"What the hell was that?" he asked her as soon as they were out of earshot. He'd messed up - he'd given her time to regroup, and instead of the honesty he was probably anticipating, she treated him to a long, steady look, one that gave him no ground.

"Nightmare," she said succinctly, ignoring the way that his eyes narrowed or the searching look he gave her. She didn't know if he'd let it drop. She didn't really care, but Sullivan was smart and he tended to pick his fights with care, which might be why he was still alive and Henderson and Carruthers weren't. He must have decided not to pick this one, because he backed off, at least for the moment. She wasn't stupid enough to think that he'd let it go entirely.

"Caulder wants to talk to you," he said instead, and this couldn't be good. Not if it was something Caulder couldn't say in front of King.

-o-

"It's not working, is it?"

Whistler went straight on the attack. It wasn't the way that Sullivan himself would have tackled it, but it didn't seem like she'd listen to reason and so he did the smart thing, keeping his mouth shut. Caulder was a big boy. He could take care of himself, even faced with a woman who was close to vibrating with stress.

Caulder's expression was edging into hangdog, even more morose than it usually was, but he seemed to be taking Whistler's question seriously. Really seriously. Maybe that was something they taught you in medical school - how to break bad news with an appropriately solemn expression.

"It's... not proving to be as effective as it has previously," Caulder hedged, and Sullivan could have told him that he was wasting his breath. Whistler wasn't in the mood for prevarication, that much was clear. She needed simple yes or no answers, preferably ones that gave a better outcome than Caulder's expression was suggesting.

"What the hell does that mean?" she demanded, her voice rising in both pitch and volume. "What? It's going to take longer for it to kick in?"

Caulder shot a look in Sullivan's direction, which he wasn't entirely happy with. As far as he was concerned, there was no point in dragging him into the line of fire. He wasn't a doctor. What the hell did he know about it? But maybe Caulder just needed to know he had backup in the event that Whistler went ape shit, because he turned straight back to Whistler, his hands spread placatingly as he explained, "Sommerfield's antivirus is reducing the viral load -"

Right about then was where Caulder lost him, but Whistler seemed quicker on the uptake. "But not enough?" she asked forcefully, worrying at Caulder like a goddamned Doberman.

Caulder hesitated again, his mouth twisting unhappily. Thankfully he didn't look to Sullivan for moral support this time, which was better for Sullivan's blood pressure, but he seemed to have decided that there was no point in beating around Whistler's proverbial bush and he should just cut to the chase.

It was about time as far as Sullivan was concerned.

"I am more concerned about the effects that the vampirism virus itself is having on his system. It's destroying the haemoglobin in his blood cells, which is not unexpected. As you know, that is the driving force behind vampires' hunger for the blood of others." Caulder's cutting to the chase seemed vastly different to Sullivan's own interpretation of the phrase, and he shifted impatiently, hoping that Caulder got the message and sped things up a little.

Whistler, however, seem to be hanging on Caulder's every word, maybe because she was hoping for something different in there from what she must already be expecting. Sure, she was smart enough to follow Caulder's technobabble, but that didn't mean she was smart in any way that counted when it came to King.

"So what do we do?" she asked. She seemed calmer now, but Sullivan wasn't fooled. The tension was still clear in the set of her shoulders and stress reverberated in her voice, even if she'd lowered the volume. And the look in her eyes... He'd seen that look before, more than once.

She was expecting Caulder to rip her world apart. Expecting it, but still clinging desperately to the hope that she was wrong.

"For now," Caulder said, "we will have to administer whole blood to replace his own. I have tried giving it to him as sustenance -" It took a second for Sullivan to get what Caulder meant - that he'd tried feeding it to King - and from the way that Whistler's face paled suddenly, she got his meaning at the same time. Got the meaning but hadn't known about it happening, from what Sullivan could tell. "But he cannot keep it down. He is stuck between two states - no longer entirely a vampire, but not yet completely human. His system cannot absorb and use the haemoglobin in the way that a vampire would. It breaks it down to digest it the way that a human's does, when he can keep it down that is."

Whistler seemed stunned into silence, not that she was particularly forthcoming even under the best circumstances. Her eyes were unfocused as she assimilated what Caulder was telling her, but she didn't seem to be coming back from it in any hurry. It was left to Sullivan to fill the gap, and he was really fucking uncomfortable about it.

"So what are you proposing?"

Whistler's eyes darted between the pair of them, but she was still keeping silent. But hell, as long as she didn't shoot the messenger...

Caulder took a deep breath, holding it in for a second as he considered his response.

The answer, when it came, was pretty much as Sullivan had expected and obviously better than Whistler had feared.

"I have already set King up on a saline drip," Caulder said slowly. "At this point, I believe that regular transfusion is the only way we can maintain his haemoglobin levels. Hopefully, this will also reduce his thirst to a more manageable level."

Whistler let out a soft sigh and some of the ever-present tension in her shoulders eased away. Maybe part of her had actually believed that Caulder was going to suggest something more terminal. He guessed that compared to that, a couple of bags of blood a day didn't even rate on her concern-o-meter. Sullivan, however, wasn't quite as optimistic about the whole thing as she seemed to be. For a start, he didn't trust King to be able to control his thirst, blood transfusion or no blood transfusion. Blade was the exception, not the rule, and King was no Blade. Couldn't even come fucking close.

And that was before he even considered all of the other issues, issues that didn't seem to have occurred to Whistler.

"How long?" he asked. Whistler turned her head and gave him a confused look, like she'd missed the memo or, more likely, several of them. "What kind of resource commitment are we looking at here?"

Whistler was still looking at him, which meant he could pinpoint the exact point where her mood changed from confused to absolutely fucking furious. Even as exhausted as she was, as weighed down with worry for King, Whistler's anger was an intimidating sight.

Or would have been if Sullivan wasn't used to bucking the chain of command when called for.

"Commitment?" she asked, her voice low and threatening. Her eyes had darkened in fury, the pupils wide and black as she shifted from concerned girlfriend to take-no-prisoners, ass-kicking Valkyrie. It was a fairly impressive sight, even if he was pretty sure he could take her. She'd had, what? Six or seven hours sleep in the last three days? If she'd been well rested, he wouldn't have liked his chances, but he couldn't let a death threat or two stop him. Even as punch-drunk as she was, as hard as it was going to hit, she needed another reality check and it didn't seem like Caulder was willing to give it to her.

Which meant it was up to him.

"Have you been listening to the chatter?" he asked brusquely, knowing there was no point in pulling his punches. "At least three cells have fallen off the grid since you and King ran into your little problem. Word is Daystar is only working seven out of ten these days, and the success rate is dropping day by day."

She didn't believe him or didn't want to believe him, which amounted to pretty much the same thing. She glanced at Caulder, either looking for some support from him or some confirmation that what Sullivan had said was true.

Sullivan didn't take it personally. Much.

She still wasn't convinced when she turned back, either that or she didn't care whether or not he was telling her the truth, because the first words out of her mouth were, "What does that have to do with King?"

Which only went to show how fucked up her priorities were. He leaned in, getting in her space in a way he probably wouldn't have done once, back when Henderson and Carruthers were still alive and Whistler wasn't losing the fucking plot. "We're losing people hand over fist, Whistler. I know it's hard. I don't want to lose King either." So maybe that was a lie. Like he gave two shits about King when it came down to it. "But we're fighting for our lives and for everyone else's lives. Sacrifices have to be made."

She didn't bother to hide her contempt and, yeah, that last part had sounded pretentious as hell. But what the hell did she expect? Their cell was down to three - he didn't count Caulder's wife, Marta, and he sure as hell wasn't going to count King. With Daystar failing, they were going to have to go back to old-fashioned ass-kicking, which meant there was going to be no one to babysit King even if he hadn't been a threat all on his own.

"Sacrifices?" The contempt was clear in her voice, too. "What the fuck do you know about sacrifice?"

He held her gaze steadily, finally letting some of his own anger leak into his voice. Some of it - the rest he kept locked down tight. "Vampires killed my wife, Whistler. Vampires like King." She flushed an ugly shade of red, but she didn't back down and he didn't let her off the hook. Not yet, and maybe not ever, raising his voice in the hope that that would finally get through to her. "Sooner or later, the thirst always wins. You know that, Whistler. You **know** that."

Her eyes dropped, long enough that he thought he'd finally got through to her. He should have known better. He should have remembered that when she was losing, when she was outmatched and outgunned, she fought dirty.

She fought to win.

"What if they hadn't killed her, Sullivan? What if they'd turned her instead? Would you still be arguing about 'resources' then?"

The anger flared within him, burning hot and bright. He no longer cared that he had half a foot on her, or that they were technically on the same side, or that she was perfectly capable of breaking every bone in his body if she had enough motivation. He loomed over her, his nostrils flaring and the look in his eyes hard and uncompromising.

"Don't you fucking dare compare King and my wife," he said quietly, the full weight of his fury showing in every clearly enunciated word. But he should have known better than to think she'd back down just because he was beyond pissed and unable to hide it.

"I'm not," she said and it would have been better if her voice had been full of the same kind of uncompromising iciness that his had been, instead of being resigned and exhausted. It would have been better if her next words hadn't been: "I'm comparing how you felt about her to how I feel about King."

The words took the wind out of his sails and left him feeling like a fucking heel, and she just kept twisting the knife, her voice rising with every word as her anger built back up again.

"So don't you dare tell me that it's a question of resources, that you've done the math and it just doesn't add up. If it wasn't for King, you wouldn't have made it this far." She took a step back, her look encompassing not only Sullivan, but Caulder as well. "None of the Nightstalkers would have made it this far because there wouldn't be a Nightstalkers and there wouldn't be a cure if it hadn't been for King volunteering to be a guinea pig the first time around."

She swung back to Sullivan, her body taut in a way that had him bracing himself for the next blow. "That's how much he wanted to be free of the virus. He'd rather have died than stayed with Danica. He wanted me to fucking shoot him, for Christ's sake. He didn't give up then and we're not giving up now. We don't leave our people behind, remember? Not if we can help it. Not if we can save them. It's too late for Carruthers and Henderson, and you weren't the one who had to sit there, helpless, while you watched them die.

"It's not too late for King, and I'll be damned if we give up on him."

She waited, staring him down until she was satisfied that she'd got through to him, or satisfied that he knew he wasn't going to get through to her. And then she turned to Caulder, dismissing Sullivan with a last hard and unforgiving glance as she said, "You do what you have to. If that means you have to give him a transfusion, you do that." She shot another pointed look at Sullivan. "No matter what the resource implications are."

Caulder nodded, avoiding Sullivan's eyes. Only then did Whistler turn on her heel, stalking back towards where King was sleeping.

"Well," said Caulder slowly. "That could have gone better."

Master of the fucking understatement. Sullivan let out the breath he was holding, feeling raw, like he'd gone ten rounds with Blade and come out, unsurprisingly, on the losing side.

"Do you really think you can cure him?" he asked. "Or are you just blowing smoke up Whistler's ass?"

Caulder didn't take offence at the crudity - he never did. Instead, he hummed to himself thoughtfully, his fingers scratching in his beard.

And then he shrugged. "If Daystar is failing, it's because the virus is mutating or because not all original strains are susceptible to it. Either way, King is infected with the resistant strain and this may be my best chance to determine why it is resistant."

"So he's your guinea pig this time as well?" Man, that was cold, even by Sullivan's own standards. He'd never figured Caulder for the mad scientist type, although from what he'd heard about Somerfield, finding out the same about her wouldn't have surprised him.

Caulder shrugged again. "I prefer to think of him as my patient, and I will, of course, do the best I can for him. And if, in the process, I can engineer the removal of some vampires from this earth..."

Sullivan gave him a tight little smile, one that held no amusement. "You're a visionary, my friend."

Caulder pulled an 'eh' face. "I prefer to think of myself as an optimist."

Sullivan wasn't going to argue with that.


	7. Chapter 7

No matter what Sullivan may have thought, the fact that they were losing cells did bother Abby. What bothered her more was that she hadn't known about it, had taken her eye so far off the ball, had been so focused on King, that she'd missed it.

She commandeered one of the working laptops and pored over the few, fragmented reports that had reached what was left of their cell. There wasn't much to go on - Nightstalkers weren't much for sharing even when things were going well, too concerned that the vampires would get wise to their arrangements and track back from one cell to another. What you didn't know couldn't be tortured out of you.

But there were still ways and means of pooling information where they could, most of which Hedges had come up with. Locked forums and chat rooms, masked IPs and proxy servers. Things she didn't understand and seldom used - she'd left that to Hedges, but Hedges wasn't around to pick up the slack.

And Abby had definitely been slacking.

It made grim reading. Sullivan had been right - at least three cells had gone completely silent, and while Abby would like to think that they'd just gone to ground, erring on the side of caution, the pessimist in her knew better. They hadn't fallen off the grid - they'd been forcibly and violently removed, one cell at a time.

Carruthers and Henderson could attest to that.

But even the cells that hadn't gone silent didn't have good news. There were repeated, coded reports of the 'payload' failing to deliver, of 'excess asset depreciation' or 'loss of customer retention'.

All of which told Abby that Daystar wasn't working and people were dying because of it.

The only upside was the fact that the vampire herd seemed to have been thinned considerably by Daystar before Sommerfield's antivirus had finally burned itself out. The downside was that the remaining vampires seemed not only immune but pissed as hell and looking for payback.

She needed to start doing her job, spending less time by King's bedside or, if she sat with King, spending as much time trawling through intelligence as she did watching him sleep the sleep of the infected and restless. Her focus now had to be on doing what she was supposed to have been doing all along - hunting vamps. Even when Hedges had been around, with his state-of-the-art ability to intercept communications and follow the money, she'd always relied on the old-fashioned way of tracking - mapping clusters of unexpected deaths and police homicide reports, or keeping an eye on CDC chatter for any unexpected or unexplained disease spikes. Now it seemed as though they were going to have to rely on the old-fashioned way of killing vamps, as well.

It wasn't going to take as much of a readjustment to her worldview as Sullivan might have expected, given his apparently low opinion of her. Yeah, she may have relied on Daystar a little too much to make their jobs easier, but she wasn't the only one and she was still more than capable of kicking ass. One of these days he might find that out up close and personal.

She was adaptable - she'd had to be. All of them it had to be and she'd long since learned to roll with the punches.

The problem was that the punches just kept on coming.

-o-

King was sleeping again. He slept a lot and all Zoë wanted was for him to wake up. She was so bored, especially because Abby was so busy these days and didn't seem to have the time to spend with her, not since King got sick. And even when she did have the time, Abby always looked sad. Zoë didn't think it was just because Abby missed her mom.

Zoë missed her mom. She tried not to, she really did, because she wanted to be a good girl. Abby was kind and King was funny, and they'd promised to take care of her, but they weren't her mom. Nothing could replace her mom, especially not when Abby was too busy and Caulder was too big and scary to talk to.

That left King, and King was sick. He slept a lot and Zoë wasn't supposed to disturb him when he was sleeping. Or when he was awake. Abby said he got tired because he was sick, and that he'd be well again soon, but he didn't seem to be getting any better. Maybe that was why Abby looked sad all of the time, because she was worried about King. And that meant that Zoë worried about him, too.

She knew that she wasn't supposed to sneak into the infirmary, but she'd wanted to see King, have him tell her silly stories until she felt better. She also wanted to make sure that he hadn't changed his mind about helping Abby look after her, but when she made her way past Caulder, who was looking down the same kind of microscope that her mom had had and didn't see her, King was asleep again and Abby wasn't there.

She sighed, kicking her feet disconsolately as she settled into the chair by King's bed and pulled Mr Gigglesworth into her lap. King had come up with the name for her new stuffed bunny, bought to replace all of the toys that she'd had to leave behind in the Honeycomb Hideout. She wasn't sure that it suited him, but King's eyes had crinkled up at the corners when he said it and she'd liked the way that it had sounded in King's mouth - like he was laughing a little as he said it and that made her want to laugh a little as well - so Mr Gigglesworth it was.

He didn't talk much, though. Not like King talked and whenever Sullivan caught her talking to the toy, he'd watch her with a small frown like she was just a **baby** and no use for anything. When he looked at her like that, all of her words dried up and she wanted to cry, just like the baby she really wasn't, no matter what Sullivan thought.

She guessed that Sullivan was okay, really, but she wasn't sure she liked him, not like she liked King. She didn't know him well enough and King didn't talk about her as if she was a nuisance **baby**. She didn't even mind if he called her half-pint or runt. He called everyone stupid names, except for Abby. Or he had. Back before her mom had died.

Zoë sighed again, switching her attention from her bunny's empty plastic eyes to King.

King's eyes were open, watching her even if they looked kind of empty like her toy's, and she perked up, excited to have someone to talk to who wouldn't think she was a pest.

"Hey," he said, and his voice sounded croaky, like Zoë's did when she had a cold or her throat was sore. She smiled at him but King didn't smile back, not at first. He just blinked at her a little, like he was still mostly asleep.

His eyes were a little weird, not like they normally were. They were light, as if all of the colour had washed away from them. Just like the Nome King's eyes had been before Abby and King (and Blade) had killed him. Just like Blade's were all of the time.

"Is your throat sore?" she asked him sympathetically, wondering if that was why he sounded so rough. "Are you thirsty?"

His face twisted up, like he had to think about it. "A little," he said, and his eyes seemed really bright now. Zoë stared at them, fascinated, before remembering how her mom used to say that staring wasn't nice, although she never figured out how her mom knew when she was staring when her mom couldn't see her doing it. Her mom used to tell her it was magic, like the Wizard of Oz.

"I'll get you a glass of milk," she said, jumping up before King could tell her off for staring, too. She didn't think he would but better - as her mom had said - safe than sorry.

She was a big girl now, and she knew how to fetch the stool so that she could reach the plastic glasses, and how to open the refrigerator door so that it didn't hit her or swing closed before she could get the jug out of the rack in the door. She poured it carefully, not spilling a drop, and then put everything back in its place before heading to the infirmary and King, both hands wrapped around the glass and walking slowly so that it didn't spill.

When she handed it to him, he gulped it down greedily, little droplets of milk escaping to run down his chin and land on his t-shirt, where they left dark little splotches.

"You'll get a tummy ache if you drink it that fast," she warned him disapprovingly, and he huffed out a little laugh as he put the glass shakily down onto his bedside table, turning his head to look at her again.

She beamed back at him, happy that he was awake and company, before she remembered her manners. "Would you like some more?" she asked politely, and he laughed again, a little breathlessly, although she didn't know what she'd said that was funny.

"Yes, please, sweetheart," he said, and she smiled at him again, bouncing back into the kitchen because this time the glass was empty and she didn't have to worry about dripping milk everywhere - he'd drained it dry.

She left the stool where it was this time. King might want more and it was too heavy to keep moving about by herself. But she still didn't make a mess and she was just as careful carrying the full glass back, settling herself on the chair beside his bed to watch him as he gulped the cool milk down again. He seemed really thirsty. She would have asked him if he wanted some more but this time he kept hold of the glass when he'd finished, wiping the back of his hand shakily across his mouth.

She stared at him for a minute, looking away from his eyes to the needle in his arm. It made her feel a little bit dizzy, watching the blood drip down into the tube, like her head was a balloon and it was just going to float away, but she couldn't be squeamish if she was going to be a doctor like her mom.

"Does it hurt?" she asked politely, looking back at King because it was better than looking at the blood. He stared back at her blankly and she had to point to the drip and the big, red bag hanging above him.

He thought about it for a moment, watching the bag, and maybe the sight made him feel a little bit sick as well, because he was even paler when he turned back to face her.

"It itches a bit," he said. Zoë couldn't see why blood would itch but King would know better than she did.

He was being very brave, braver than Zoë thought she could be if someone stuck a needle in her arm.

"Are you going to stay awake now?" she asked when he stayed silent, and he smiled back at her, soft and faint.

"I guess so."

"Are you feeling better?"

He hesitated for a moment, before nodding. His eyes were still bright and not like King's at all, but she'd missed talking to him. "A little bit," he said. "Why, d'you want some company?"

She nodded enthusiastically, and his laugh this time was more like King's used to be.

"Want me to read you a story?"

That got an even more enthusiastic nod. King wasn't the one who usually read her stories - her mom had done that, and then Abby once her mom had died. But Zoë would never pass up a story about Oz, even if it was something that had just been between her mom and her once.

She guessed that Abby and King were her new family now, and it was bad not to share.

"Okay," he said, and he wasn't smiling now. He looked tired, his eyes too pale and his face all washed out. Maybe he was still feeling sick, and she felt a little guilty at bothering him when Abby had told her not to. But King didn't seem to mind, and maybe it was just that all of that milk really had given him a stomach ache. And anyway, he'd offered to read her a story, and she'd missed stories so much since Abby got so busy. "Go fetch your book and then you can come and sit right down here." He patted the bed beside him. "So we can both see the pictures, okay?"

She didn't pick an Oz book. Not when King's eyes were shining like that, reminding her too much the Nome King's eyes and how they had looked just the same. She picked _Alice in Wonderland_ instead, because it was almost as good as an Oz book and it was just as silly as King.

Caulder didn't spot her when she made her way back to the infirmary this time either. Being small was good in some ways if it meant she could sneak into places without being seen. King was still awake and she gave him another smile, getting a tired, distracted one back, before she clambered up onto the bed next to him, settling herself in the crook of his arm.

He was very warm, even if the arm he put around her wasn't as soft as her mom's. She propped the book up on her knees and started turning the pages, listening as King started to read the words softly, stumbling over them like he was really tired and couldn't concentrate. She didn't mind that much - she knew the story well enough to fill in most of the gaps even when he got distracted, or he missed words or sentences.

It was still a good story and it was good to have someone read it to her.


	8. Chapter 8

Sullivan was tapping his fingers on the desk impatiently, a little staccato rhythm of which he was barely aware. Whistler had stolen the one laptop they had that still worked - or at least the one that wasn't dedicated to running Caulder's viral load projections. He hadn't been kidding when he'd told Whistler that trying to cure King was going to use up resources they couldn't spare. He just hadn't figured it would mean that he was reduced to manually pulling together all of the evidence they had of potential vampire activity, instead of being able to dump the data into a database and use the search algorithms that Hedges had developed.

How the hell that they done this before the invention of the microchip? He guessed that the world had been smaller then, less anonymous than big-city life. Or maybe he was just sulking; Whistler had stolen the last can of soda as well, and Sullivan never functioned very well without his daily dose of caffeine.

Still, at least she was back to doing her own research instead of mooning over King, even if Sullivan knew damned well that she'd come up with the same answer that he already had. Maybe there was hope for her yet, but he wasn't counting on it.

He tapped his fingers again, ignoring Caulder as the other man walked right by him, giving him a strange look as he headed back towards his microscope.

Yeah, okay, maybe he was hanging out in the lab a little more frequently than he used to, but this whole situation with King had him on edge. Even if she seemed to have rediscovered her love of hunting, it wasn't like Whistler was going to start treating King with the caution he deserved any time soon. And that meant that Sullivan had to step up to the plate, whether he wanted to or not.

He didn't. Babysitting didn't sound like his idea of fun. And babysitting **King** seemed like his idea of absolute hell. Still, it could have been worse - Caulder hadn't called him on the impromptu guard he'd set up outside King's door, indulging him with a heavy sigh and the odd look or two. Whistler, on the other hand, wouldn't be anywhere near as understanding when she finally figured out what he was up to.

Tonight, the sound of King's voice had become a constant, low-level drone that Sullivan had tuned out. King had been talking when he'd arrived and he was still talking now, as if Sullivan needed any confirmation that King loved the sound of his own voice. He had no idea who King was talking to. He'd thought Caulder at first, until Caulder had sauntered back from the bathroom break he'd taken, and it couldn't be Whistler, not tonight. He'd passed her on his way to the infirmary, and the last he'd seen of her, she'd been buried elbow deep in paperwork in the Ops room.

Poor Marta. It had to be her - no one else it could be - but he hadn't thought she had much time for King. She was too no-nonsense to put up with his attitude, much like Sullivan himself.

His fingers tapped the desk again and Caulder shot him a glare, his patience obviously wearing thin. Sullivan stopped, his fingers hovering just above the surface, before he thought better of it and placed them flat. Never piss off the medic - not when there was a good chance that needles would loom in your future.

Maybe Marta could do with a break - seemed like Caulder could. He pushed himself to his feet and headed towards the small room in back. He was half way there before he heard the high-pitched giggle that sounded nothing like Marta. It didn't sound like Whistler either, and that assumed she'd managed to sneak past him. The sound raised the hairs on the back of his neck, and he found himself picking up the pace, his hands sliding automatically to the small of his back where he stashed his spare blade. He never took it off these days, even when he was supposedly safe in HQ.

Nowhere and nothing was safe these days. Maybe that was why his heart rate had also kicked up a notch.

He wasn't quite running by the time he skidded to a stop in King's doorway, but it was as close as made no difference. He took in the scene in front of him with a single glance, and his blood froze in his veins.

Zoë looked up at him, her small, heart-shaped face frowning at the interruption. She was way too close to King for comfort, curled up in the crook of his arm and leaning against his chest. The book that King had been reading was propped up in front of her, and King was now staring at him over the top of it, the light from the infirmary overheads behind Sullivan reflected in his eyes.

His eyes were yellow.

Sullivan took in a deep breath, keeping enough wit to stay where he was in spite of every instinct screaming at him to get the hell over to Zoë and get her away from King, by force if necessary. But he didn't want to spook the kid, and he sure as hell didn't want to start something he had fuck all chance of stopping.

Zoë was so close to King that he could rip Zoë's throat out before Sullivan was even half way there. Marta's views on firearms in the home be damned - from now on, Sullivan was carrying a gun as well as a knife around indoors.

"What are you doing?" he asked softly, keeping his voice as calm and even as he edged his way towards them, moving as nonthreateningly as possible.

King stared back at him, a frown creasing the skin between his brows. "I'm reading Zoë a story," he said. "Why? What did you think I was doing?"

His voice sounded the same as it always had, even if his eyes clearly showed that his less-than-human side was rearing its ugly head again. But Sullivan wasn't going to be fooled by King's usual sardonic and slightly sarcastic tone, and he sure as hell wasn't going to let King put him at ease.

That was Whistler's mistake, and there was no way Sullivan was going to let Zoë pay for it.

"Do you think that's a smart idea?" he asked, gradually closing the distance between them.

"Would you rather she watched hours of TV instead? I mean, I'm not exactly reading her Playboy. Believe me, tonight's choice of reading material is completely age-appropriate." King held up the book, flashing the front cover at him.

Sullivan ignored it, finally coming to a stop a couple of feet from King's bed - close enough to grab Zoë if he needed to, but far enough away that King wouldn't have time to grab him before he got Zoë away.

"Zoë, honey?" Zoë frowned up at him, not fooled by his tone for a second. They'd never exactly been friends - he didn't have time for kids, not even ones as smart as Zoë seemed. "You want to come over here?"

"No," she said, turning him down with a six-year-old's irrefutable logic. She tilted her head to the side to study him, weighing him up and apparently finding him wanting. The assessing expression on her face was so like Whistler's that for a second it was difficult to believe that they weren't actually blood-related.

King's weight shifted on the bed, setting the springs underneath creaking. He was still watching Sullivan, and his expression was no less assessing than Zoë's. He couldn't have missed the way that Sullivan had tensed up as he'd started to move, and he didn't seem to have missed the implications either. He stopped moving before finally settling slowly back down into his original position, his eyes staying fixed on Sullivan as he eased his arm from around Zoë.

"I think it's bedtime, sweetheart," he said, ignoring Zoë's little whine of protest. "You want to go and find Abby?"

Zoë pouted, the glare she shot at Sullivan leaving no doubt who she blamed for her story being cut short. She slid off the bed reluctantly, dragging her feet as though that was going to lead to a reprieve. And then she turned back to face King, holding her arms up for a goodnight hug.

Fuck. Sullivan measured the distance between him and King, trying to calculate the point at which it would be safe to snatch Zoë, just in case the girl decided to be completely uncooperative or King's self-control failed.

But King, it seemed, was completely in control. Completely in control and as much of an ass as he always was. He stared straight at Sullivan, his look challenging as he wrapped both of his arms around Zoë, dwarfing her tiny frame. Sullivan held his gaze, impotent fury rising up in him, until King finally dropped his face towards Zoë's head, squeezing the girl gently and pressing his mouth against her hair. It would have been touching if it hadn't been for King's fangs or the hungry light that flared in his eyes.

But before Sullivan could move, end this and maybe even end King, King let go of her, reaching up to push her hair out of her eyes and tuck it behind her ear.

"Good night, sweetheart," he said. "Try and be good for Abigail, okay?"

Zoë nodded obediently, trotting out of the door, but not without giving Sullivan an uncertain look on the way.

Sullivan waited until she was out of earshot before he turned back to King, snarling, "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

King settled back on the bed, making a production of it, but his eyes, when they met Sullivan's again, were hard and cold. His voice, however, stayed deceptively mild as he replied, "I told you - I was reading the kid a bedtime story."

"A bedtime story?" Sullivan didn't bother to keep the contempt out of his voice, or hide the anger. "A fucking bedtime story? Are you out of your fucking mind?"

"Well, that's debatable..."

He lost it, getting right up in King's face and shaking with rage. His voice was also shaking as he growled, low and dangerous in the back of his throat, "You wanna know what I was debating? Whether I'd manage to kill you before you killed Zoë."

King froze, his eyes widening fractionally as he took Sullivan's words in, absorbing them. And then the fight drained from him, the light vanishing from his eyes.

"I wasn't going to hurt her," he said. "I'd never -"

He swallowed the next words down, and Sullivan hoped they'd choke him. He opened his mouth, probably to say as much, given how pissed he was, but Whistler finally chose that moment to start being a goddamned parent, interrupting them. Her expression was worried and it grew even more so as she glanced between them, taking in the tension in the room.

"Zoë asked me to check on you," she said, directing her remark at King but staring at Sullivan. There was a look of calculation in her eyes now, as though she was adding to and two together and coming up with an answer she didn't like.

Sullivan took a step back, putting enough distance between him and King to let Whistler relax. And to make sure that he didn't wrap his hands around the bastard's throat and throttle him.

"I'm fine," King said colourlessly. "Just tired."

She nodded, her expression not quite believing, but she didn't look as though she was going to call him on it. Instead she shot a hard, suspicious look at Sullivan, a barely veiled threat lurking in her eyes.

He had no fucking patience for this, not tonight and not ever. He opened his mouth to say as much, but once again King beat him to the punch.

"You should probably keep Zoë away from me. At least for the moment."

King somehow managed to avoid Whistler's eyes as he said it, but that meant that his gaze landed on Sullivan, who glared back at him, pissed and relieved in equal measures.

Whistler, however, wasn't quite as easy to convince.

"What? King...?"

"Look -" King broke off, still managing to avoid looking at Whistler as he scrubbed his hand across his face. "Let's not take any chances, okay?"

"Chances?" Whistler stared at him, her expression dumbfounded, and then her temper began to rise, the anger bubbling up towards the surface. "What the hell are you talking about? Did something happen?" And then it was like a light bulb had suddenly lit up above her head. She turned to look at Sullivan and if he'd thought that her eyes were hard before, it had nothing to the look in them now. "Did someone say something?" she asked icily, the temperature in the room plummeting.

"He's right, Abby."

King's sudden defence of him still didn't warm Sullivan to him any, and it didn't seem to hold water with Whistler either.

"Right?" Her voice started to climb, both in pitch and volume. "He's not right - he's wrong. He couldn't be more wrong. You think I don't know that?" She took a ragged breath, but the pause wasn't long enough for Sullivan to interject before she continued, her voice now low and intense rather than shaking with the high-pitched anger it had held. "Two days," she said. "You were locked in that room with me for two days after you turned and I'm still here. There isn't a chance in hell you'd hurt Zoë."

The fury in her voice made Sullivan want to take at least a couple of steps back, put a safe minimum distance between them, not least because there was something else beneath the fury, something lost and scared. Scared people were never rational. He knew that for a damn fact.

But it didn't seem to faze King, at least not long enough for the man to keep his mouth shut.

"Not if I was in my right mind, no," he said. "But what if I'm not?"

That took the wind out of Whistler's sails. Or, he reassessed, she'd already run out of steam in the face of the inevitable. But that didn't mean she was going to quit. He should have figured she wouldn't go down without a fight.

"Why wouldn't you be in your right mind?" she asked him quietly, something desperate underneath her question.

"Oh, let me see. How about the fact that I'm already running a fever of a hundred and three. Or the fact that the thirst is getting worse and worse all of the time. Or the fact that Caulder's cure isn't actually curing me. Any of those working for you, sweetheart?"

To give Whistler due credit, she didn't react to King's savage tone. She simply stood there and took it, her expression sliding back into its usual impassive mask as the words rolled over her, harsh and bruising. And even after he'd finished talking, she simply stood there, looking at him and saying nothing.

King was the first to look away, shame clouding his face. And then he sighed, his shoulders slumping as he stared down at the hands he had in his lap.

"We can't risk it, Abby," he said more seriously, the hard, sarcastic edge gone from his voice. "Not Zoë."

"You want me to keep her away from you?" Whistler's voice now was giving nothing away, as impassive and unreadable as her face.

King nodded, but something in her tone - something Sullivan had missed - seemed to put him on edge.

"And do you want me to stay away from you, too?"

King stilled, panic flashing briefly in his eyes. He swallowed, unable to mask the hurt or the fear completely, but he nodded slowly anyway, his eyes searching Whistler's face. Or maybe he was just memorising how she looked, some kind of romantic shit like that.

Whistler snorted. "Tough," she said, and the tension bled away from King's frame. "I'll talk to Zoë, tell her she needs to leave you to rest if you're going to get better."

"You might want to... spend a little more time with her," King suggested, which only confirmed Sullivan's low opinion of his survival instinct.

Whistler's stance shifted slightly, becoming something dangerous and predatory.

"Or not," King added, his face creasing apologetically, like that was going to be enough to save him. "Just..."

"I'll keep Zoë away, but I'm not going anywhere."

Sullivan was still watching King, even if King's focus was now entirely on Whistler, which meant he didn't miss the relief Whistler's words had triggered. Neither had she, judging by the way her expression finally softened for a moment, or the way that she reached out and pressed her fingers lightly against King's arm before she moved away. Her expression only hardened again when she realised that Sullivan was still watching them, giving him a look that promised a world of pain if he stepped out of line again or threatened King even implicitly, as she passed him on the way out of the door.

And that meant that Sullivan was alone with King, a situation Sullivan had no desire to be in. He didn't know what King wanted, and he didn't give a fuck either way. He was already heading back into the infirmary when King's voice stopped him.

"I wouldn't have hurt her," he said. Sullivan huffed out an impatient breath - he had zero interest in playing semantics. He turned on his heel, ready to rip King a new one, but King's expression, when he finally faced him, was serious, no sign of the fool that King was all too happy to play. "But you were right - there may come a time when I won't be able to stop myself."

Sullivan raised one eyebrow, folding his arms and waiting. "I was right?" he prompted.

"Yeah, well, don't get too cocky, Sullivan. Even a stopped clock manages that twice a day." He paused, giving Sullivan another one of those assessing looks, the ones that Sullivan was getting sick and tired of. "You don't like me much, do you?"

"What gave it away?"

"Well, the silver blade you have tucked in the back of your pants was my first clue. Actually, I lie. I've never thought you liked me, even before recent developments."

He made a little air quotes around the word 'developments', but Sullivan didn't rise to the bait, meeting his eyes calmly. "And here was me thinking you were stupid."

"I'm wounded. But that will make what I have to say next a little easier."

Sullivan didn't like the sound of that, but King's look was challenging, just waiting for him to throw the fight, and that pissed him off enough to stick around and hear King out. "Go on."

"I made Abby a promise after that fucker bit me. I promised her I'd try, that I'd fight this as long as I could."

Sullivan shifted uncomfortably, not liking where this was going.

"You talk to Caulder recently?"

He shook his head.

"I'm not doing so good, but I suspect you already knew that." Sullivan didn't react this time, not willing to either confirm or deny. Either seemed rather pointless, but King nodded anyway, like he'd confirmed it. "And that's where you come in."

"And how do you figure that one out?"

King smiled at him, but there was no amusement in it, just something dark and bitter in his eyes. "Abby made me a promise, too. It was a shitty thing to make her promise, but the way I see it we're pretty much even on that front, she and I. Aren't you going to ask what it was?"

Sullivan suspected he already knew, but some part of him - a small, petty part but at least he was man enough to admit that - refused to give King the satisfaction of answering. Not that King needed it - he really did like the sound of his own voice.

"I made her promise she wouldn't let me hurt anybody. That she'd take me down if necessary. I think we both know that she's not going to be able to do that. I mean, she's tough, no doubt about that, and I wouldn't bet on my chances if..."

"If it was anyone but you," Sullivan completed for him.

King's smile this time was slightly more genuine. Slightly. "Yeah, waste of resources that I am."

Sullivan froze, giving King a narrow-eyed look. "Whistler tell you that?"

"No," King said brightly. "You really should think about using your indoor voice if you don't want the person in the next room to hear you."

Bastard.

"But I'm not one to hold grudges. Especially not if you promise to kill me if it becomes necessary."

He'd been expecting something like that, but hearing King state it so calmly, like it was nothing, gave him pause. King, however, didn't seem to notice his hesitation, or if he noticed, he just plain ignored it.

"Please note the 'necessary' caveat. And just in case you're thinking of getting a little trigger-happy, I think I should point out that even if it does become necessary, Whistler is going to be seriously fucking pissed at you. She'll probably come to terms with it if you had to do it to save someone else, but I'm also pretty sure that if she decides it wasn't? She'll probably just shoot you."

King wasn't wrong, but then what was it he'd said about stopped clocks? Sullivan didn't let any of that show on his face, meeting King's eyes calmly and hiding behind his best stone face.

"Do we have a deal?"

"Doesn't the word 'deal' imply I get something out of it?"

"Well you hate me and you might get to shoot me. I'm not sure what else you want?"

Sullivan nodded slowly, his brain whirring away. King was right, on all counts, as much as he hated to admit it. Whistler wasn't going to be able to do it; she'd believe in King to the very last, and the very last might be her death at King's hands. Sullivan wouldn't have any such hesitation, but there was a hell of a difference between killing somebody - something - in the heat of the moment or in self-defence and talking about it as calmly as King was doing.

"Okay," he said eventually. "If it comes down to it, your life or somebody else's, I'll make the right call. You have my word on it."

Some of King's tension ebbed away, leaving him less brittle, a little less hyper. Instead he just looked sick, and tired, and too damned young. Maybe that was a side product of however long he'd lived as the vamp, but for the first time since he'd met the man, Sullivan didn't think so. He had no idea how old King really was - he'd never bothered to ask.

It would be kind of hypocritical to ask now.

King sank back down into his pillows, sweat breaking out on his forehead. "Just one more thing," he said, and Sullivan braced himself, strangling his first impulse to scowl at King for putting conditions on it at this point. "Just make it quick, okay? As quick and clean as you can."

A sudden surge of pity overwhelmed him, evaporating the last remnants of his anger, at least for now. In all of his consideration of King as a problem, in all of his weighing up of the potential solutions, he'd missed a variable - how fucking scared King was.

Yeah. No matter what, he could promise King that.


	9. Chapter 9

Sullivan had never been one to put off what needed to be done, preferring to take his licks sooner rather than later, and this was no exception.

He found Whistler on the roof, sitting in the darkness with her arms wrapped around her knees. She was supposed to be on watch, and the bow lying on the ground by her side was mute testimony to that. She looked up when she heard the crunch of his boots on the tarred roofing, but she didn't say anything and, after a moment, he settled down beside her, mimicking her position.

"The kid with Marta?" he asked, and she stiffened, obviously expecting another lecture from him. But he was tired of lecturing her, and it wasn't like she listened to him anyway.

"Yes," she said and her tone made it clear that she wasn't willing to discuss it. Any of it, up to and including King.

He nodded, more to himself than at her, and then he cleared his throat, choosing his next words with care, making them as non-inflammatory as possible. "Want me to take over?" he asked. "So you can go sit with King?" As peace offerings went, he didn't think that one sucked, but Whistler shot a look, one that was confused and distrusting, and he forced himself to add, "I don't mind."

There was a long pause before she said, quietly, "I need to start pulling my weight."

He had no idea whether that was a less-than-subtle dig at his resources comment, except for the fact that while Whistler might to do subtle, she didn't tend to do passive-aggressive. That was one thing he admired about her - she wasn't shy about making her point.

He nodded again, automatically scanning the skyline for any movement. Some habits died hard, but better the habit than him.

"I didn't think he could hear me, you know," he said. "When I said what I said about resources. Not that I wouldn't have made the same point, but I'd have made doubly sure I was out of earshot. I'm not quite that much of an asshole."

"That's debatable," she said, a small frown now furrowing her brow. But her tone was dry, not confrontational, and his mouth twitched upwards wryly. Girl had a point.

"Caulder thinks that whatever's going on with King might provide him with valuable data about why Daystar isn't as effective any more. So... I might have been wrong about it being a waste of resources." That could have come out better; in fact, when he replayed the words over in his head, he really did sound like that much of an asshole. Whistler seemed to think so, the way she was staring at him, but the next words out of her mouth surprised him.

"King would probably agree with you," she said quietly. "Even if -"

She broke off, swallowing suddenly and tearing her eyes away from his to stare back out over the derelict buildings surrounding them. He knew what she'd been going to say, though. It wasn't like it was hard to guess.

"I'm sorry," he said, and for the first time he meant it.

She nodded, her eyes still fixed on the horizon. "I'm sorry, too. I didn't know about your wife. But you know that doesn't change anything."

He cleared his throat, feeling strangely like he had to make it up to her. Maybe it was a side effect of keeping watch together, especially at night - silence and the stars seemed to encourage confidences. He'd noticed that before, out in the desert. "I married young," he said, the words coming out stilted and awkward. "Too young, as it turned out. It was a fucking disaster, but at least we didn't have kids when we finally called an end to it. No one's lives to fuck up but our own."

She turned her head to look at him, the starlight catching in her hair. He couldn't read her expression, and maybe that was for the best.

"I swore off marriage after that, figured I'd had my shot and learned my lesson. But then I met Suzie..." His Suzie, with her belly laugh and a smile that could rival the sun. He trailed off, thinking about her, the hurt still fresh and raw. "I guess what I'm trying to say is..." Words failed him again, but maybe, being so guarded herself, Whistler got what he was trying to say anyway.

"Everyone who fights has a reason to hate vamps," she said. "Including King."

Or maybe she didn't get it, but then since Sullivan barely knew what he'd been trying to say, it wasn't surprising that Whistler had misunderstood. He scratched absently at his scalp, still trying to find the right words.

They still wouldn't come. He was reduced to asking, "What's your story, then?"

For a second, he thought she wouldn't answer him. He wouldn't have blamed her if she hadn't, but instead she tilted her head towards him again, watching him in the moonlight, and then finally said, "I always knew vampires were real."

"You never lost anyone?"

"Before? No. But I've lost my dad, my team. And now -"

She broke off, obviously thinking about King, and Sullivan kicked himself for making things worse instead of trying to build some kind of rickety bridge between them.

"You haven't lost him yet," he said softly, the least he could offer her after putting his foot in it. "And if Caulder has anything to do with it, you won't."

She smiled at that - he caught a faint glimpse of the corner of her mouth turning up in the moonlight - and said, "He's not Sommerfield, but he'll do."

He supposed that was high praise coming from Whistler. "He's pretty determined. I think he actually likes King."

"A lot of people do," she said quietly, and he found that difficult to believe.

"I take it you do," he said dryly, and the corner of her mouth turned up again. "How long have you two been together?"

She stilled, a sudden, painful lack of movement, and he kicked himself again. Seemed he was always putting his foot in it these days with Whistler. "I thought there'd be time," she said, and her tone now was faint, as though the only way she could cope was to distance herself from what she was saying. "When we'd finally won and, you know, I thought we were winning."

Shit. Now he really did hate himself. He was surprised at King not pushing it, not when he couldn't imagine the man ever meeting a boundary without feeling the itch to kick it over. He cleared his throat awkwardly, but he'd opened the floodgates and now he just had to hold on through the torrent that escaped.

"I shouldn't have waited," she said, her voice tight, on the edge of some barely checked emotion. "But I was too fucking scared. And King -"

"And King?" he prompted, because this was like a train wreck and he couldn't look away, even if that made him a complete bastard.

She shrugged, lost for a moment in her own private little world of grief and regret. "I've always been able to read him," she said. "I knew how he felt."

Sullivan felt even more like a heel, but he couldn't leave it like this. "How he feels," he said gently, or as gently as he could, and he figured it was the thought that counted. "I'll take the rest of the watch. You can go do the dutiful girlfriend thing, sit by his bedside and hold his hand, whatever you think you need to do. Just promise me you'll be careful." And, yeah, he wasn't her fucking father - he didn't need her look to tell him that. He had no right to dictate that, but from everything he'd heard it sounded like her father had been a peach. It wouldn't hurt for Whistler to know that one person other than King gave a shit about her, even if that person had to be him.

She studied him for a long moment, reading his expression as well as his words. She must have decided that his heart was in the right place, even if he had a fucking awkward way of saying it, because she finally nodded, pushing herself gracefully to her feet and reaching down for her bow.

"Thank you," she said, and then she was gone, scrabbling back the way he'd come a hell of a lot more nimbly than he had on the way out.

-o-

She wasn't surprised when Caulder tracked her down on one of the few occasions that she wasn't camped out by King's bed in the infirmary - she'd known something was coming when King still wasn't showing any signs of improvement and the length of time he'd been infected could now be measured in weeks instead of days. Even with Sullivan now - reluctantly and to King's immense second-hand amusement when he'd heard about it - picking up some of the slack with Zoë, she'd been growing more and more on edge, waiting for the other shoe to drop, waiting for someone to just rip the ground out from underneath her feet.

Seemed like it was finally happening.

"I need to talk to you. Do you have a minute?"

Caulder always sounded serious, but there was something in his expression this time that told Abby clearly that she wasn't going to like what he had to say.

She straightened up slowly, closing the lid of her laptop and bracing herself.

"Perhaps you would like to sit down?"

Her mouth had gone dry and she pressed her fingers hard into the surface of the table, letting the pressure anchor her. Her knuckles were white, bent back painfully, by the time she met Caulder's eyes again.

"I'm fine."

He nodded, but he didn't look like he believed her. When she didn't sit, he did instead, settling himself down into one of the battered chairs opposite her. He was a big man - she forgot that sometimes, so used to King's height that everyone else seemed small - and he dwarfed the rough, wooden frame, making it look flimsy instead of something that had survived more than one rough and tumble 'we're still alive' drinking session.

He steepled his fingers together, staring down at his hands rather than looking at her. Maybe he was gathering his thoughts, but she didn't think that was it. He seemed nervous, and weirdly that made it easier.

"Tell me."

She said the words softly, but Caulder looked up at her, meeting her eyes. His were tired, and she wondered when he'd last slept, whether he was finding dealing with King's condition as difficult as she was.

He nodded slowly, taking in a deep breath that sounded more like a sigh.

"I believe we should stop the antivirus treatment," he said. "I have already discussed this with King and he understands why."

It was even worse than she'd expected and the words hit her hard, yanking the ground from under her feet and leaving her reeling. She couldn't believe that King would go along with this. It didn't matter if he understood, she didn't understand. She couldn't. She wouldn't accept it.

"You're giving up?"

"No, no." He shook his head decisively enough, but how could she believe him? "It is not a case of giving up. The antivirus that Sommerfield developed..."

"It's still not working?"

She wanted him to deny it, was desperate for it in spite of guessing that herself, but he disappointed her. He hesitated for the slightest of moments before he nodded reluctantly.

It didn't matter how reluctant he was to admit it, it still hurt, tearing through her heart and leaving nothing but devastation in its wake.

"You have to keep trying," she said, dropping her voice low and hating the pleading tone that was creeping into it. "If you stop the treatment now, he'll die." Her voice cracked, becoming something ugly and painful, but it was nothing to the pain that was surging up inside her, pain she was barely keeping in check. "You can't. I can't let you."

His expression grew pitying and it felt like a slap in the face, silencing anything else she might have said. Not that there was anything else to say - she wasn't going to let King die, not while she drew breath.

"I have not given up, Abigail," Caulder insisted, pushing himself back to his feet as she shook her head, rejecting what he was saying. "This is a setback. It's not a defeat. You have to believe that."

She didn't, not when it couldn't feel like anything but a defeat. It felt like abandoning King, something she'd sworn she'd never do, and the agony twisted inside her again at the thought.

"Listen to me." Caulder came closer, catching hold of her hands and holding both of them in his big paws, holding on tightly when she tried to pull away and forcing her to pay attention to what he was saying. He leaned in closer to her, dropping his voice to something low and intense as though that would get through to her when nothing else had. "We can keep treating him with Sommerfield's antivirus, but it will simply continue to weaken him, not the virus. His body is too stressed, trapped between being human and being vampire. And the longer we use the antivirus, the less effective it is becoming. Soon it will not be enough to prevent him from turning again anyway, but my concern is that he may not survive that long if we do not stop it now."

"But... but he's... he's not..."

Caulder's fingers tightened around hers, warm and sure, and she wished she could believe him. "His blood pressure is too low. I cannot keep him hydrated and while the transfusions are helping they are not doing enough to maintain his core systems. It is his heart I'm concerned about. The amount of stress on it... He is already beginning to suffer from arrhythmia and that is only going to get worse. I have tried so many things to keep him stable... This may be the only thing that works."

King had a big heart, Abby thought numbly. No one would ever believe it if she told them that - he played the fool too well, both bite and bark on the surface, using words like weapons to hide behind. But he had a big heart underneath all of that and it couldn't let him down now.

"Abigail." Caulder seemed to have pulled himself together while she was falling apart. "I promise you. I am not giving up. I will bring him back to you, I promise."

But people kept making her promises that they couldn't keep. Why should Caulder be any different?


	10. Chapter 10

She'd mostly stopped shaking by the time she made it back to King's room, but she still hesitated for a long moment outside the door, trying to compose herself, stay strong for him, and for herself.

It was a wasted effort - as soon as she opened the door and stepped in, King saw everything that she was trying to hide. He knew her too well, and she'd never regretted that before now.

"I'm going to guess that you've heard the good news, then?"

She didn't know how he could be so flippant about it, even given his propensity to make a joke out of everything, especially the things that shouldn't be joked about. She moved further into the room, shutting the door behind her and avoiding King's eyes until she'd regained at least some control of her emotions.

It was a wasted effort. She dug deep - so fucking deep - into her reserves and it still wasn't enough.

"Caulder told me, yes." Her voice wasn't shaking now, and that was something at least.

King nodded slowly, his eyes drifting away from her face as he lost himself in his own thoughts for a moment, and when he came back to her, his expression was twisting ruefully.

"Not really the outcome we were hoping for, I guess," he said, and the corner of his mouth quirked up a little.

"Caulder's not giving up." It was important to hold onto that. She had to hold on to that, and so did King.

"Yeah, I know." His smile this time was no more genuine than the first, just a bit bigger. "But just to be on the safe side, I think I'll be cancelling any holidays in the sun for the foreseeable future. Don't want to burn, after all."

Her eyes prickled, tears welling up in them in spite of her best efforts to keep them at bay. She took a deep, shaky breath, holding it down inside her and trying to stay calm, but then she caught sight of his face, the concern crinkling his brow, and she let it all out again, even more shakily.

"Hey, now. You're supposed to be the strong, silent type, remember, Whistler? I'm the spunky, emotionally available sidekick."

That helped - her breath, when she released it, came out in an explosive little chuckle, one that was cracked and broken around the edges but still better than a sob.

"That right?"

"Damn straight. Of course, you realise this makes me the cute one?"

"In your dreams, King."

"Only the really good ones," he said, and just like that she was struggling to keep it together again, fighting back the tears and the screams of anguish, knowing that neither would help him.

It was a close call, but she forced it back down again, slamming the lid down as hard as she could and fastening it as tightly as she knew how.

"Are you okay?" she asked him when she'd finally managed to lock everything away, knowing that it was a stupid question but needing to hear the answer anyway.

"I'll -" He trailed off, his mouth twisting wryly again. "I was going to say 'live', but somehow that doesn't seem appropriate."

"You promised me," she said, surprising herself with the ferocity of the words. She surprised King, as well. He retreated into a wary kind of silence, watching her closely but not answering her, not at first. "You -"

She bit off the words, clamping down on them before she let them out but it didn't matter. Her meaning was clear.

"And you promised me, too," he said quietly, his words lacking the force of hers but hitting home anyway. He held her gaze steadily, and she was the first one to look away, trying to swallow around the lump in her throat, the one that was threatening to choke her. "Abby..."

He trailed off again, searching her face for some sign, something she couldn't even begin to grasp. She had no idea if he found it or not, but he settled back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling rather than looking in her direction, and sighed softly. "I'm not giving up, okay?" He shot her a quick glance, his eyes tracing over her face again. "But I think I'm entitled to think that this whole thing sucks donkey balls."

He was a master of understatement, but she'd take it. She'd take anything if it meant he was sticking with her, refusing to quit even after this latest setback.

Setback. It sounded so innocuous in her head, like it was a minor hurdle when it was anything but.

"Can you do something for me, please?"

She nodded, knowing from the slightly diffident tone in his voice that she probably wasn't going to like it much. But she guessed her feelings about stuff like that didn't matter anymore, not in the grand scheme of things.

"Make sure you do keep Zoë away from me," he asked, turning his head again and looking straight back at her. "That might be the one thing I'm not joking about."

This time he didn't look away and neither did she.

"King..."

His face twisted, something dark and dangerous flashing through his eyes. "Do you know what Danica threatened me with? The last time she got her talons into me?"

The switch in subject confused her and she shook her head mutely, searching her memory and coming up blank. He'd never mentioned it and that didn't bode well, even given the fact that he was talking about his psychotic ex.

"She told me that she knew what scared me most. And she was right, to give the horse-humping bitch her dues. Do you want to know what it was?"

She didn't, she really didn't, but she nodded anyway, unable to help itself. It was the very least she could offer him and yet lurking underneath that was a dreadful kind of fascination, the need to keep poking at it, just to see how horrific it could get.

"She told me that she'd turn me again, make me into the thing I hate most. Then she'd wait, and for someone with impulse control as poor as hers, she could be really fucking patient if it was going to get her what she wanted. And then, when I couldn't stand the thirst any longer, she'd feed Zoë to me."

It took a second for the words to sink in, heavy and bitter, and then she focused on tamping down any reaction, biting back the instinctive denial that rose to her lips. She couldn't afford to indulge it, not when he was watching her as closely as he was, waiting for her to fall apart. To give him the confirmation he expected - that he wasn't worth fighting for. His steady, half-expectant gaze scared her more than the words themselves, like he was hanging by a thread and just waiting for - wanting - her to cut it.

She took a deep breath and nodded, keeping it brisk and business-like, burying the screaming so deep that not even King would be able to hear it.

"And I'd have done it, too. There's no point in pretending otherwise. What was it Drake told Blade? 'Sooner or later, the thirst always wins'? Well, the fucker had a point."

"King..."

"Don't." His smile, broken as it was, managed to take the sting out of the word. "You promised me that you wouldn't let me hurt anyone, and by anyone I mean you and Zoë. The rest of the world can go fuck itself." He paused for a moment, his eyes crinkling as he thought. "Okay, maybe I'd pass on Caulder. Maybe. I mean, Marta I'd definitely pass on. She makes a mean chicken soup that's - pardon the pun - to die for, but Caulder's kind of on my shit list at the moment, for obvious reasons."

She dredged up a smile from somewhere, even though she wasn't feeling it. "I notice you don't include Sullivan in that little list of exemptions."

"Yeah, well, he's kind of an ass. Just in case you hadn't noticed."

"I'd noticed," she said, and he nodded slightly, giving her another of those half-smiles even as his fingers tapped against his waist, the jerky rhythm giving him away.

"And what about you?" he asked suddenly. "How are you doing?"

"I'm..." How the hell was she supposed to tell him and not make it worse for him? How the hell was she going to lie? "I've been better," she admitted, because King must have figured that much out. It wasn't exactly rocket science. "The whole situation... well, I've heard it described as sucking donkey balls. Gotta say, I can't really argue with that."

"Yeah," he said. "I've heard the same thing." His smile this time was more genuine, more like King, and a pang went through her. There was no way she could find anything to say that would make this whole fucked up situation bearable.

When it came down to it, she'd always been better with actions.

She started to unlace her boots, which took longer than she would have liked. Her fingers were still shaking and the fact that he was watching her silently, a slight frown creasing his face as though he was trying to figure out what she was up to, simply made it worse. Eventually she managed to toe them off, and settled on the bed beside him. He hesitated for a moment before shifting sideways, moving towards the wall and giving her room to lie down.

She slid her hand across his waist, resting her head in the hollow of his shoulder, and his arm came around her automatically, pulling her closer. He smelled of antiseptic and the faint, lingering odour of fever sweat, and his skin was still a little too warm to the touch, but he was breathing and his heart was still beating. She burrowed in, closing her eyes and holding on until his other arm came to wrap around her too, tightening imperceptibly when she twisted her fingers into the fabric of his T-shirt.

"What happens now?" she asked softly. She hadn't been able to follow all of Caulder's monologue as he'd explained - all she'd been able to focus on was the howl of denial echoing around and around inside her brain, blocking everything else out. Shock, she supposed, as if she had the right to be shocked when King was the one going through it. "When does...?"

She couldn't bring herself to finish the sentence and it didn't help when he didn't answer her immediately. Maybe her question hadn't been clear, and she was running through it in her mind, looking for a better way to phrase it, a way she could live with, when he finally said, quietly and subdued, "Caulder's going to stop administering the antivirus tomorrow. I think that's what he said. I kind of..."

"Tuned him out?" she suggested when he didn't seem able to finish his sentence either.

"I'd argue with that but... yeah. Sounds about right. So, I don't know whether he's just going to stop and make me go cold-turkey or whether he has to wean me off gradually. You know, like a twelve step programme or something. A 'hello, my name is Hannibal King and I used to be a vamp' kind of deal."

She nodded, the move rubbing her cheek against his chest. It was oddly comforting, feeling his heart beating underneath her, the sound of it strong and steady.

Only it hadn't turned out to be strong enough.

That wasn't fair and she knew it, just like she knew that Caulder wouldn't be stopping the antivirus without really good reason. But life, as she'd known from a very young age, was about as far from fair as it was possible to get, and this whole situation really wasn't fucking fair. It just wasn't.

"I'm scared," he said suddenly. His voice was tight and tense, startling her for a moment before his words sank in. Something inside her broke, shattering into a thousand pieces all of them cutting into her. She tried to sit up and look at him, but his arms tightened around her, holding her against his chest as his breath caught in his throat.

She stopped fighting him, trying to be whatever the hell he needed and taking her cue from him. Her heart was racing, matching his, and all she could do was cling to him, holding him as tightly as she could because she couldn't let go if she tried.

She wasn't going to try.

"I know," she whispered, her heart breaking for him all over again. She didn't need to see his face to get how scared he was - it sang out in the timbre of his voice, the way stress made it crack and break, and the subtle trembling of his body where it pressed up against hers. "It's..."

She was going to say 'it's okay' but she couldn't lie to him, not about this.

"I'm scared, too," she admitted instead, her voice cracking like his had. She had no right to be scared, not when he was the one going through this and not her, but she couldn't let go of it, not when the fear had wrapped itself around the very centre of her. "But I'm not losing you, okay? I'm just not."

He nodded, his breath catching again, a little click in his throat and a ragged exhale. She closed her eyes, pressing herself even more tightly against him and able to feel his pain all too clearly, too clearly for comfort. He buried his face in her hair, his breath wet and warm against her scalp.

She held him while he shook. He never made a sound, nothing outside of the occasional hitching of his breath and the soft rhythmic beating of his heart.

Her face was wet against his shirt when his shoulders finally eased, but he didn't call her on it, avoiding his normal cheap jokes and saying nothing to ease the tension. But then the tension had already eased, washed out of her by her tears, and by his. She felt empty, hollow with exhaustion, but that still seemed more bearable than the weight of everything she'd been carrying for days now.

It wouldn't last. She wasn't quite stupid enough to believe that it would even if she had been capable of lying to herself.

"Thanks." His voice was hoarse, but stronger than it had been, not as bright and brittle, but more real somehow in spite of its roughness. "See, I told you I was the emotional sidekick."

She smiled, just a small one but it still felt like a victory. "You also told me you were the cute one."

"Are you disagreeing?"

"No. You feeling better?" she added softly, and he nodded, his cheek brushing against her hair. She hesitated, the inevitable words forcing themselves to the surface to come out in a comforting lie or two. "It's going to be okay, you know. Caulder's going to find the cure and... it's... it's going to be okay."

He nodded again, but she didn't think he believed her. She couldn't fault him for that - she didn't believe it herself.

-o-

Once King had finally fallen asleep again, she'd eased herself away from the warmth of his body before she could fall asleep next to him, remembering her promise to Sullivan as well as her promise to King.

She couldn't sleep, not knowing what was coming, and she was left pacing the floor, counting the steps in her head because at least that drowned out some of the screaming. She only stopped when she realised even that reminded her of King. She couldn't stop picturing his face, the expression on it when they'd been trapped in the basement together, the hunger and the fear.

She'd put Zoë to bed hours before, reading her a bedtime story the way she'd been neglecting to do recently, and that was just another lump of guilt to swallow down until it lay, like lead, in her belly. And now it was just her and too much information about an enemy they were never going to be able to fucking defeat.

If she hadn't cried herself out by now, she'd have sunk down at the table and buried her face against the rough, wooden surface in despair. As it was, all she had to cling to was her anger and she wasn't letting it go any time soon.

She couldn't. She was pissed at Sullivan, pissed at Caulder, pissed at the world. Sooner or later something had to give, and Abby was beginning to think that it was going to be her.

The words were blurring in front of her, any patterns she might have found hidden by the sheer weight the data. She needed Hedges, but Hedges was dead and gone, like Dex was dead and gone, like Sommerfield, her father, Henderson, Carruthers. Now it was just her and King left, and she was losing him, too.

She swept her hands through the useless pieces of paper littering the table top, sending them spiralling up into the air. It didn't help - the anger still pulsed through her, a snarling beast that she couldn't keep fed.

She supposed that she had that much in common with vampires, at least.

She'd still have that much in common with King.

"Did I catch you at a bad time?"

Sullivan had somehow managed to sneak up on her, although given the way she'd been silently raging she suspected that it hadn't required much stealth. He was standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame as if he didn't have a care in the world, eyeing the scattered remnants of her temper tantrum with a raised eyebrow and a sardonic twist to his mouth.

"Did you want something?"

Her voice was ice, savage and unyielding, and his eyebrow went up a notch, but he didn't call her on it. He had that much sense, at least, even if he didn't have enough sense to keep his distance. He pushed himself away from the doorframe and sauntered into the room, his hands pushed casually into his pockets and his shoulders slumped.

But she wasn't fooled - she hadn't missed the quick, furtive glance he sent towards the infirmary or the wariness in his eyes when he looked back at her.

"You've heard," she said flatly. It was the only explanation for him seeking her out now.

He nodded slowly, gauging her reaction. She didn't know if he'd found what he expected or not and she didn't care either. She wasn't even sure whether she should be expecting sympathy from him or not, but it still surprised her when the next words out of his mouth were: "That's not why I wanted to talk to you."

She mimicked his eyebrow raising, too pissed and heartsick to give any ground, and his jaw tensed for a moment before he let it go. It washed over him the way it wasn't washing over Abby, not when it had dug its claws in deep and was ripping her apart. His eyes took in the devastation, the scattered remnants of her research, and when he finally looked back at her his expression was considering.

"You find anything?" he asked neutrally and her jaw tensed, too wound up to take it as anything other than criticism, even if that wasn't the way he'd intended it.

It probably wasn't, to be fair to the man, but then hadn't she just been thinking how fucking unfair life was?

"Lots of death, lots of property damage, lots of bad shit going down." Even she couldn't miss the fact that her phrasing sounded a lot like King's. She curled and uncurled her fingers, consciously trying to calm herself. "How do you tell vampires killing from people just killing each other?"

Sullivan shrugged, his eyes never leaving her face. "When the people who are dead are missing a hell of a lot of blood," he said, but for once he didn't sound sarcastic about it. He hesitated for a moment before adding, "I've got some potential leads, if you're interested."

She stared at him, wondering about his motives, why he was bringing it up now. He was still waiting for an answer and in the end she offered a tentative and noncommittal, "Okay?"

He nodded thoughtfully to himself - or at least, it seemed aimed more at himself than at her. "It's out of state," he said, and she could tell from his expression now that he knew she wasn't going to be happy about it.

"You expect me to leave King now?"

"I expect you to do your job, Whistler." His tone was uncompromising but the look in his eyes softened slightly as he added, "What else are you going to do? Sit around and watch him turn again? Do you really think he'll thank you for it?"

The observation silenced her, hitting home as hard as Sullivan had probably intended. There was no answer to his question and Sullivan seemed to realise that, pressing his advantage.

"Ask him," he said. "I think we both know the answer. And, yes, what's happening to King is a goddamned tragedy, but it's not the only one. People are still dying out there, Whistler. Sometimes our people." He stepped back, moving out of her personal space and shrugging his shoulders tiredly, looking suddenly exhausted. "A lot of times not, but innocent civilians are supposed to be the reason we doing this, aren't they? The ones we're supposed to protect?"

That was the official version, but she knew better and Sullivan must have known that. Her father had fought to avenge his first family, the family he'd actually cared about. Sommerfield fought for her dead husband, Hedges for his brother, Dex his partner. And Sullivan himself was doing this for his wife. The same story, just different endings.

Her story was different, and so was King's. But in the end it didn't look like they were going to be different enough.

"Talk to King," Sullivan repeated, studying her closely as he said it, no doubt able to tell that she was wavering. "He'll tell you the same thing I am - you're needed out there, Whistler. More than you're needed here right now, no matter what you think."


	11. Chapter 11

King was sleeping again when she finally made her way through to his room. She hung back for a moment, watching him. He still looked like crap, pale and sweaty, his beard dark against his washed out complexion and tendrils of hair sticking to his forehead. The skin underneath his eyes was paper thin, almost translucent, and he looked so vulnerable that it hurt her heart, love and tenderness welling up inside her and making her eyes prickle with the grief that followed hard on their heels.

He stirred, maybe able to sense her on some level, whether that level was human or not, and his eyes slowly drifted open until he was blinking blearily at her, frowning a little as he tried to gather his wits together.

And then he smiled, small and sweet but tired, so tired around the edges. "Hey," he said. His voice sounded croaky and unused, and a lump formed in her throat again, choking her when she was trying to stay positive and upbeat for him. All she could manage was a small smile back at him, one that couldn't be sweet, not when it was so broken.

The smile faded away from his face, replaced by the look of concern, worrying about her, when really he should be worrying about himself. Maybe he was too tired, too worn down to paste his normal sarcastic persona over the top of it, mute it a little and make it less obvious than he usually would, but whatever the reason, that look faded a lot more slowly than his smile had done.

"Hey," he said again, this time beckoning her towards him, an exhausted flick of his fingers that she couldn't ignore even if she'd wanted to.

She didn't want to, even if it was selfish to put this on him now.

She sat down on the chair next to his bed, ignoring the unsubtle way he shifted to make room for her on the mattress. He didn't push it, reading her mood as well as he always had, but he struggled to sit upright, messing with the pillows until he was comfortable. It gave her breathing room, which was probably what he'd intended. For someone who was usually blatant and in-your-face, he did have his subtle moments.

"Well, I'd ask what's wrong but I've got a feeling I know." He looked at her, quirking his eyebrow, and something on her face must have given her away. "Or maybe I don't."

There was the faintest hint of a question in his words, something she could ignore if she wanted to, King still reading her mood too closely for comfort. She dropped her gaze from his, suddenly wishing she'd taken him up on the offer of lying next to him. This might be easier with his arms wrapped around her, but maybe not.

"What is it?" he prompted. "Come on, Whistler. If you're going to hit me with bad news, get it all out at once. I'm kind of running a three-for-two deal here, and it's time-limited."

"There's nothing wrong," she said. Sullivan would have to do without her, she decided. There was no way in hell she was leaving King, not to go through this on his own. "I just..."

"Well, the way I see it there are three options. The first - and most likely - is that you're obsessing about Caulder cutting me off tomorrow, in which case I'd like to point out that at least one of us has to stay sane while I go cold turkey and I've kind of nominated you for the position." He quirked his eyebrow her again, inviting her to join in the joke.

It wasn't funny.

"Option number two," he continued when she stared at him blankly, "you're trying to decide what to tell Zoë. I vote we tell her she's adopted, that way she doesn't have to worry about getting any of my genes." That was a little funnier, but not by much.

"Option number three," he said blithely, "you've decided I'm far more trouble than I'm worth - and I can't disagree with you on that one, sweetheart - and you're running away with Sullivan."

That one hit too close to home, and some of that must have shown on her face because King's jaw dropped and he stared at her, speechless for a moment before he recovered himself.

"Jesus. Please tell me it's not actually that. I mean, we both know your taste in men is dubious, and I think I'm the case in point, but Sullivan? Come on!"

If she'd been in a joking mood, she'd have pointed out that his taste in women was decidedly worse than hers in men given his track record, but she couldn't even bring herself to reference Danica, not now and maybe not ever again. Instead she shifted uncomfortably, finally admitting, "It's not what you think."

King was still staring at her, stunned, and then the hurt started to blossom across his face. If she'd thought he looked vulnerable before, it was nothing to how he looked now, and it was so goddamned stupid. Did he really think...?

"Sullivan thinks he's found a nest," she blurted out and, just like that, the hurt and confusion vanished from his expression, leaving something suspiciously like amusement behind.

"Right..." he said slowly, and he was definitely mocking her now. She should be relieved about that, pleased that he felt well enough to be a smartass, and mostly she was except for a small part of her, the part that was used to his antics and therefore had the conditioned urge to smack him back down again just to keep him honest. "And this is an issue because?"

"We're losing people," she said quietly and his amusement evaporated.

"You need to go." It wasn't exactly a question. He was so smart sometimes, the times when he wasn't being a smartass, so quick to pick things up and take them to their logical conclusion.

"I should stay," she said and it sounded weak, even to her own ears. "I don't want... I don't want to leave you."

He nodded slowly, never taking his eyes off her face. "So... what? You're going to sit here and mop my fevered brow while people are dying out there? No offence, sweetheart, but that really doesn't sound like you."

"It's at least a ten hour drive away and I'd be gone at least a week. I'm not leaving you to go through this on your own." The last sentence came out more fiercely than she'd intended but he didn't back down, even if there was a brief flash of pain in his eyes before he smothered it.

"So you really **are** going to sit there and mop my fevered brow. Wow. I never really had you pictured as the Florence Nightingale type, not unless she was secretly a ninja. And there's a mental image that's going to be living with me for a while."

She closed her eyes, taking a deep breath before she opened them to look at him again. "Will you take this seriously?"

"I don't take anything seriously. You should know that by now. I mean, this time tomorrow I'm probably going to be back to being a vampire and I'm still cracking wise about it. That's just how I roll. You know, tasteless and borderline obnoxious."

She gave him a long, steady look, the kind of look that had quelled him in the past and it didn't let her down this time either. He blinked at her before he glanced away, looking a little shamefaced, which just made her feel guilty.

He was right. This was how he rolled, ridiculous comments to make fun of the things that terrified him the most.

"I'm not going to leave you," she said again, more gently this time, trying to convince him that there was no way in hell she was going to abandon him.

"I think I'd prefer it if you did."

It took a second for the words to sink in, long enough for King to already be giving her an apologetic look, his mouth twisting in the way it always did when he knew he was in the wrong. Only he wasn't in the wrong this time, not really.

"Look, Abby... We both know what's going to happen tomorrow. And..." He trailed off, for once lost for words, and when he continued his voice was rough, full of suppressed emotion. "I don't want you here. I don't want you to see it and I don't want to have to worry about -"

"I can look after myself," she said forcefully.

"That's not what I'm worried about. I can't." He bit the words off, staring at her, a defiant kind of anger shining in his eyes. "You promised me you wouldn't let me hurt you. I've turned with you there once already. You think I don't want you as far away as fucking possible from me when I have to go through it again? I'll pass on the mopping the brow thing, sweetheart, especially if it means I can't hurt you or Zoë. And if it means I'll be able to look you in the eye afterwards." He swallowed. "It's going to get ugly and I'm not so sure of your affections that I want you to see me ugly." He tried to smile and failed. "I mean, Sullivan's kind of pretty. In the right light and with copious amounts of alcohol. I'd rather not take the chance."

"King..."

"Don't." His smile was definitely broken this time and his eyes were as serious as she'd ever seen them. "Just... don't, okay, Abby?"

She nodded mutely, unable to deny him this.

"Okay." He echoed her nod, a jerky, automatic response of which he seemed barely aware. "Just do two things for me, okay? First, make sure that Caulder keeps Zoë away from me. I'm serious about that. I don't..."

He trailed off again and she nodded, reaching out and fumbling for his hand, wrapping her fingers tightly around his when she found it.

It was the first time she'd touched him since she'd walked through the door, and that should have told her everything she needed to know about how she really felt about what the following days would bring. How he felt about it, too.

"What's the second thing?" she asked through numb lips.

"Be careful." He wasn't joking. He reached up with his free hand and stroked his thumb along her cheekbone, his touch unbearably gentle. "I'm not going to be there to watch your back, not that I was any great shakes at it the last time." His mouth twisted again, wryly this time. "But I love you, so just... be careful."

It was the first time he'd said it and she swallowed down the tears that fought to rise to the surface. His thumb brushed over her cheek again, wiping away the few that escaped, and then he cupped her cheek with his palm, anchoring her as he leaned in and kissed her.

He kept his mouth tightly closed and so did she, no chance of her coming into contact with his fangs. It was over far too quickly and then, too soon, he was pulling away, his fingers lingering for a second before they too were gone, leaving her with a bittersweet kind of sadness.

And then he looked straight past her. When she turned her head and looked herself, she wasn't surprised to see Sullivan standing in the doorway.

"I got hold of another cell in the area," Sullivan said, smart enough not to comment on the intimate moment he'd just observed. "What was left of it. They're heading to the general area. Rendezvous is in twelve hours." He paused, assessing her reaction, before he added, "If you're coming, we need to move out now."

King squeezed her fingers, a light pressure that caught her attention. The look in his eyes was serious, but he didn't have to say anything. Didn't even have to nod. She got it.

She nodded at Sullivan, rising to her feet and already making a mental list of the things she'd need to do in the hour or so before she and Sullivan headed out. Talking to Caulder was at the top of her list and checking on Zoë wasn't very far down on it. Her fingers slid out of King's and she stared down at him, unable to find the right words to say.

But they didn't need words - his expression told her everything she needed to know and everything he felt. She gave him a faint smile, finally moving away.

"Look after my girl, Sullivan," King said as she paused in the doorway, looking back at him. His tone left no doubt that he was serious. Sullivan nodded slowly, holding King's gaze for a long moment, one that stretched out before Sullivan finally looked at her, his expression still assessing.

"When do we leave?" she asked him, all business now even with the taste of King still lingering on her lips and the warmth of his fingers a sense memory on her skin.

"Give me an hour," he said. "I'll pull the kit together, give you time to do what you need to. You can check it when I'm finished if you like." His mouth curled up slightly at the corner, the only sign of approval she was likely to get from him.

She nodded, moving past him and already dismissing him from her thoughts.

Sullivan watched her go, waiting until she was out of sight before he turned back to King.

Now that Whistler wasn't there to see him, King slumped back into the pillows, his face creasing with exhaustion. He suddenly looked as sick as he actually was, only wrestling the façade back into place when he caught Sullivan watching him.

"You okay?" Sullivan asked him, partly because he felt he ought to, partly because... well, pain in the ass or not, King deserved better than this.

King didn't seem to appreciate it. His face creased further, but with irritation this time, it seemed, instead of fatigue. "Why the hell do people keep asking me that?" he groused a little petulantly. "It's a stupid fucking question."

Sullivan shrugged, unfazed and far from offended - maybe that was a sign of personal growth, not to take offence at any of the crap that came out of King's mouth. "I don't know," he said dryly. "Anyone would think they gave a shit."

King gave him a dark look, but since he didn't look right then as though he could wrestle a six-year-old and win, Sullivan ignored it. That would change, though, if Caulder was right about what would happen once he stopped administering the antivirus. If Whistler didn't do as King asked and warn Caulder to keep the kid away from him, Sullivan would. In fact, he'd warn Caulder anyway. Better safe than sorry.

But that still left the problem of King and the promise Sullivan had made to him.

"I've got something for you," he said slowly, reaching behind him and untucking his knife sheath from its normal position in the small of his back. King tracked his move, his expression turning wary when Sullivan brought it into view, and Sullivan supposed he couldn't really blame King for that. But he wasn't a cruel man - he had no intention of drawing it out and leaving King wondering if this was it. Instead he tossed the blade towards King, where it landed neatly on King's blanket-covered lap.

King hesitated before picking it up, his fingers wrapping around the hilt and drawing it free, catching the light on the silver blade. His fingertips brushed against the blade as he slid it home again, but there was no smoke curling up from the contact points, the way there would have been had he been entirely vampire, or the way there probably would be once Caulder stopped his treatment. He shot Sullivan a considering look, one that weighed him up, trying to figure him out as he tucked the sheath under his pillow.

It was a surprise to realise that he minded if King thought he had an agenda. "I made you a promise," he said gruffly. "I might not be here when you... if you need me to keep it. I figured you'd appreciate a backup plan."

It took a second for his words to sink in, and then King nodded slowly, his expression still considering, but tired now, the kind of bone deep weariness that Sullivan could get behind.

"Just don't tell Whistler I gave it to you," he said. "I'm already on her shit list. I could do without being pushed to the top." He hesitated, taking in King's exhaustion, remembering the way that the light in his eyes had died once Whistler had left the room. Before he could think better of it, he blurted out, "She loves you, you know." He had no idea why he'd said it. It was none of his goddamned business. But... maybe King just needed the reminder, so that even without her there, there was still something to fight for. "Try not to kill yourself before you have to. That would make her even more pissed and I'd rather not be on the wrong side of it."

King gave him a lopsided smile. "You're all heart," he said. "Not much in the way of spine, of course, but then I suppose nobody's perfect."

Sullivan snorted, rapidly reaching the conclusion that bonding time was over. He gave King a brief nod and then turned away, heading towards their makeshift armoury.

This time he was going to make damned sure that they were prepared.


	12. Chapter 12

She was gone closer to two weeks than the week she'd told King. She didn't even have time to think about him, much. Not with the daily frustration of this hunt.

The vamps they were tracking had gone to ground, and she and Sullivan were always two steps behind them, following the trail of devastation they'd left: the deaths, the families torn apart, the grief and the loss. Maybe that was why she couldn't let herself think of King very often - it was too close to home, too uncomfortable, and she'd always been good at compartmentalising.

The remnants of the other cell they'd hooked up with had a background in law enforcement and were more disciplined than the chaos she was used to, better suited to the life than Hedges had been, or Carruthers and Henderson. She watched them work, observing how they went about it, making mental notes where she needed to, filing away things she could adapt, methods she could use, and ignoring the rest.

She didn't have much in common with them, not like Sullivan did, and outside of the hunt she kept mostly to herself, staying focused and disciplined, outwardly polite but not really friendly and open. Stokes - the younger one - made the effort to get to know her, full of Texas charm and gosh-ma'am attitude, but he didn't get anywhere in a hurry, not that it seemed to bother him much.

She preferred Willows, who was older than her and a lot more cynical. There was something about the woman, though. A toughness that said she'd seen a lot, even before she'd known about the existence of vampires, and that, at the base of everything, she was a survivor.

Stokes had lost his partner, Willows her daughter. It was a familiar story, and for the first time Abby had something similar to share. But she didn't talk about King, and Sullivan didn't either. Some things were too private to put out for public consumption.

They worked well together, the four of them, Stokes and Willows able to read a scene in a way she'd never thought possible. They were also still hooked into whatever local law enforcement networks they'd originated from, and that all provided valuable intel, letting them build up a picture that eventually took them away from the cities and into the heartlands, where the landscape stretched for miles, empty and open, and there was no cell phone signal.

Being cut off from base left her uneasy, not knowing what was happening with King or with Zoë. It was another reason not to think about him much, not when she was so far away and there was nothing she could do about it except get the job done so she could get the hell home. It tested her compartmentalising to its limits, but if Stokes and Willows could be professional, then so could she.

The end, when it came, was almost an anti-climax. Daystar didn't work on this nest, either, not as effectively as it had elsewhere, but it put some vamps down, coughing and spluttering, even if it didn't take them out entirely. Silver and liquid garlic extract still worked, the garlic disabling them the way it always had, and in the end they died screaming and flailing at the end of Abby's knife and her bow, consumed by Sullivan's sundog bullets, Stokes' UV grenades, and Willows' maternal fury.

It was only once the goodbyes had been said, with a hunter's trademark brusqueness - except for Stokes who couldn't stop being charming even if he'd tried - that she finally let herself think about what might be waiting for her back at base. Now it was over, she was chomping at the bit, and Sullivan for once seemed happy to accommodate her, packing the car up in record time and ignoring the way her fingers tapped impatiently against her knee.

Of course, being out beyond the sticks meant it was hours into the journey before she finally got a signal again, and once she had, it figured that Caulder wouldn't be answering his phone.

She tapped at the on-board keyboard of her cell impatiently, staring out of the windows at the vista rolling past outside, the miles of darkness with only a few specks of light in the distance, what passed for civilisation in these parts. She couldn't wait to get back to the city, any city, where the ground was familiar and they had decent take-out. She knew where she was when she was surrounded by steel and concrete, glass and brick. Those were the hunting grounds she was familiar with, not these wide-open skies that stretched on forever, only the myriad pinpricks of starlight relieving the endless black.

Sullivan glanced across at her, taking in her tension, before his eyes were back on the road again. He cleared his throat, for once deciding to say something instead of leaving her to wallow in her own fears.

"I'm sure everything will be fine."

Platitudes didn't suit him. He didn't have the face or the tone for them, the words coming out stilted instead of comforting, the way he'd probably intended. She gave him a look, one that conveyed everything she needed to about his ability to lie, and he scowled for a moment, his expression clear in the reflection on the front windscreen.

She tried Caulder again, cursing under her breath when he failed to pick up.

"You do realise it's also the middle of the night where they are, right? And we'll be there in less than six hours. Just in time for breakfast."

She gave Sullivan another look, but this time it failed to have the effect she was aiming for. He shrugged it off, reaching over to turn on the radio, the sound filling the car in spite of its low-volume.

It was country, of course, and she could just picture what King would say about that. Or maybe not - his musical tastes were eclectic to say the least.

She tried her cell again, ignoring the slightly exasperated look Sullivan shot her. Still no answer.

"Whistler -"

"The last time I didn't get an answer when I called," she said, staring out the front windscreen, "it was because King and Zoë had been taken and everyone else was dead." She didn't look at Sullivan until she'd finished talking, and when she did, his expression twisted, half in sympathy and half in frustration with her.

"Fine," he said. "But do me a favour - grab one of those cushions from the back seat, okay?" Her confusion must have shown on her face, because he rolled his eyes at her, an expression she wasn't used to seeing from him.

"If the cops pull us over, we're speeding because you're in labour, got it?"

-o-

HQ was quiet when they finally got back, the whole complex bathed in the dawn's golden light, making it look warmer and more welcoming than it usually did. Even the weeds looked pretty, soft greens and golds that she didn't stop to admire. There was no sign of life, which wasn't unexpected - the buildings around them were empty and abandoned, and they'd learnt the hard way to keep a low profile - but it didn't do anything to reassure her.

The sound of the car door slamming as Sullivan joined her on the asphalt sounded too loud in the early morning silence, but she couldn't be irritated with him for long, not when he moved to flank her, his hand dropping automatically to the weapon strapped to his thigh.

There was no sign of any disturbance as she walked up to the entrance to the building they'd appropriated, no indication of forced entry, nothing out of place. She pushed the door open slowly, and it didn't creak. Caulder must have finally got around to oiling it - she couldn't imagine anyone else bothering, and while that should have been reassuring, in her current mood, with her heart beating too fast and the tension rising within her, it wasn't.

She slid through the opening, Sullivan hard on her heels, and kept her tread light as she moved through the building, taking in the signs of occupancy - yesterday's newspaper open on the kitchen table, the dishes in the sink, the faint pulsing light of the TV in the other room and the muted sound of canned laughter.

She moved towards it, still moving carefully, alert for anything out of place, so tense she was almost vibrating with it.

Zoë was sitting on the floor in front of the couch, her eyes fixed on the screen in front of her and a bowl of cereal clutched in her hand. Something chocolatey, the kind of thing that Sommerfield had never let her have and Abby still didn't. This door still creaked, and Zoë looked up at the sound, her small face lighting up as soon as she spotted Abby.

"Abby! We're watching Sesame Street!"

Abby grinned at her, relief flooding her system. It was only when she registered the 'we' that she realised that Zoë wasn't alone in the room.

King was stretched out on the couch, his head pillowed on his hand, with one of the couch cushions underneath that. Zoë's _My Little Pony_ quilt was draped over him and he looked like death warmed over, pale and shivery with dark circles under his eyes. But his eyes were a deep, dark brown, not pale and washed out as they had been, and when he smiled at her, they crinkled at the corners, his whole face lighting up at the sight of her just as Zoë's had.

He was the most beautiful sight that Abby had ever seen.

"Hey," he croaked, shifting slightly on his makeshift bed so that he could look up at her. "You're back. Just in time for breakfast."

She nodded, barely aware that she was doing it, too busy just drinking the sight of him in. She tried to say something, and she was barely aware of that either, only knowing that she couldn't get the words past the lump in her throat or concentrate when her eyes were burning.

"You're... you okay?" The words stuttered out of her, filled with a fragile hope.

"I feel like I've got the flu," he said. "But it could be a hell of a lot worse." He blinked up at her, shivering again, and tried to sit up. He was moving as if every part of him ached, and she could sympathise. She'd had the flu before, and it was never pleasant. "Caulder didn't tell you?"

She shook her head mutely, still focusing on trying to breathe, not breaking down entirely in front of Zoë. He looked sick, but he looked human sick, the normal kind of sick. The kind of sick he'd get better from.

"Huh." He grimaced as he settled down again, tugging the quilt over his legs. "I thought he would have. In fact, I was pretty sure you'd hear his excitement all the way over in... What was the name of that place again?"

She shrugged, too focused on him to pay any attention to his question. "Somewhere... else," she said, and he smiled, the expression on his face moving from something amused to something warmer as she watched him.

"Hey," he said again, and she nodded, tears welling up in her eyes.

He'd left a space on the couch next to him when he'd sat up, and she dropped her bag to the floor, her jacket following it as she headed towards him, settling down next to him. Her hand reached out towards him before she caught herself, half-convinced that this couldn't be real, that she'd fallen asleep in Sullivan's car and they were only half-way home. But King closed the last few inches between them, his roughly callused hand wrapping around hers.

His skin was warm to the touch, too warm to be due to anything but his fever, but his eyes weren't glazed. He knew exactly who she was, and he knew who he was, too.

"How are you feeling?" she asked, searching his face anxiously. "Are you...?"

"Human?" His eyes crinkled again. "As I ever was, I guess. It's -"

He broke off, looking past her, and she didn't need to hear the sound of boots scuffing against the floor to know that they were no longer alone. When she turned her head and looked towards the doorway, Caulder was standing there, still in his nightclothes, yawning and scratching unselfconsciously at his beard, Sullivan just behind him.

"Abigail." Caulder sounded just as glad to see her as Zoë and King, and his next words confirmed it. "It is good to have you back."

"You," she said pointedly, "need to start answering your phone."

He snorted, not at all put out by her tone, but then it took a lot to faze Caulder.

Abby, however, felt completely fazed, still reeling and still not quite able to believe that this was for real.

"You want to explain?" King asked, gesturing at himself, curled up on the couch. "The technobabble is beyond me."

Caulder nodded, looking smugly pleased. The light of scientific discovery shone in his eyes, the same light he'd had when admiring Sommerfield's handiwork. That had to be a good sign.

"As we discussed," he started, a little pompously, "I stopped administering the antivirus we had been using to treat King." Abby could only assume he meant the royal 'we', since no one else had had anything to do with treating King. "I expected that the transition to vampire would occur within twenty-four hours at most, as the antivirus gradually left his system. I knew it may not be as quick for the vampire virus to turn King as it would with the newly infected, not if some of Sommerfield's antivirus lingered in his system, but when forty-eight hours had passed and King was still running a fever -"

"Cut to the chase, Caulder," Sullivan interrupted in a slow drawl. "You can blow your own trumpet later." Abby shot him a grateful look, and he acknowledged it with the very faintest inclination of his head.

Caulder was shaking his head, not at all annoyed by Sullivan's interruption. If anything, he looked indulgent, and his eyes were sympathetic when they met Abby's. "There will be no trumpet blowing, my friend," he said. "I had very little to do with it."

She looked between them, confused.

"Apparently I'm making antibodies," King explained, leaving her very little the wiser.

Her eyes widened and she looked at Caulder for some kind of confirmation, relieved when he nodded thoughtfully. "It seems," he said gravely, "that King's body is fighting off the vampirism virus on its own. I had not heard of such a thing before, and if I had not seen it for myself..." He paused, giving her enough time for his words to sink in and start to make a strange kind of sense. "Perhaps it is because this is the second time he has been infected, leaving him, if not immune, then less vulnerable to infection than might be the case otherwise. Or perhaps it is that Sommerfield's antivirus has bought him enough time on this occasion for his body to begin to fight back, when normally the bone marrow is altered by the virus too quickly to enable it to produce the necessary antibodies."

"So..." She trailed off, trying to formulate the question in a way that made sense. "Is he... cured?"

"The virus is not entirely gone from his system, not yet, and I have re-initiated treatment with the original antivirus to assist in reducing viral load so that his own immune system has every opportunity to continue to produce antibodies. But I think at this point it is simply a question of time."

"There's more." It was King's turn to sound smug, although that might have had something to do with the fact that he'd taken the opportunity while Caulder was talking to move closer to her, his shoulder now pressed up firmly against hers and their fingers intertwined. He made her wait, though, for Caulder to explain what he meant instead of telling her himself.

"We may be able to use the antibodies that King's body is producing to augment Daystar."

"Now who's a waste of resources?"

Sullivan's brow clouded for a moment at King's crowing, but then it cleared again and he gave King a rueful little smile.

"Well, it's about time you turned out to be useful for something."

King flipped him off, but the move was automatic, no hard feeling behind it.

"Now what?" Abby asked, still wrestling to assimilate what she'd been told and still too scared to truly believe that things were going to turn out okay.

King's fingers squeezed hers for a moment, comfortingly.

"At the present rate, I'm hoping that the worst will be over within a matter of weeks. He will continue to run a high temperature, cold sweats, headaches, perhaps nausea and aching muscles -"

"I've got the flu," King repeated, and Caulder frowned, opening his mouth to object as his sense of accuracy was offended. King cut him off, however, before he could say anything. "For all intents and purposes, I **feel** like I've got the flu."

Caulder let out an exasperated sigh, the sound suggesting that they'd had this conversation more than once while Abby had been away. But he was a smart man - he knew when it was best just to let King have his head, crack his jokes, be a smartass. He had that much in common with Abby, at least.

"The symptoms," he acceded, "will be very similar to a bad case of influenza, and other than the antivirus, the only treatment I am recommending is rest, warmth and lots of liquids."

Zoë had been listening, if not following what the adults were talking about, but she jumped in now, obviously pleased to have a contribution to make. "He gets cold," she explained Abby solemnly. "So I fetched him my quilt."

"Kind of makes up for waking me up at five a.m."

Zoë frowned. "You were already awake. I didn't need to wake you up and I could have got my own breakfast."

"Yeah, yeah," King said, waggling his eyebrows at her. "You just wanted someone to watch Sesame Street with."

"Watching Sesame Street was your idea," she said seriously, her small face solemn as she pointed out the unfairness of King's words. "I wanted to watch SpongeBob."

It was overwhelming Abby, the idea that this was it, that after everything they'd been through, all of her fears of losing King to either the antivirus or to a hunter's blade, it had come down to King fighting it off like a bad case of the flu. Maybe Sullivan got some of that, or maybe the on-going good-natured bickering between Zoë and King was more than he could take, but he tapped Caulder on the shoulder and gestured with his head that the pair of them should leave her alone with her family.

Zoë broke off from arguing with King over whether Miss Piggy or Animal was the best Muppet. "I'm glad you're home, Abby," she said shyly, and Abby gave her a shaky smile, fingers tightening automatically around King's. She hadn't been able to let go of him and he didn't seem to have any objection.

But as soon as she thought it, King finally released her hand, shifting down the couch and stretching himself out, laying his head in Abby's lap and curling his legs up so that he'd fit his frame onto the cushions. He let out a satisfied sigh when he finally settled, something soft and contented, and Abby's eyes prickled again, burning with unshed tears. She covered it by tugging Zoë's quilt over him again, smoothing it down and leaving one hand on his shoulder as she threaded the fingers of the other hand through his hair.

Touching him made it real in a way it hadn't been before, and for the first time since they'd been captured she began to believe, really believe that they'd make it through this, that everything would turn out to not just be okay, but better than okay.

"She's not the only one glad you're home," he said sleepily, reaching up to catch hold of her hand again and twining his fingers with hers. "There's only so much Sesame Street a man can take."

"Your idea," said Zoë stubbornly, wriggling around until she was sitting with her back against the couch, pressed against Abby's leg as she started to eat her breakfast again, her eyes fixed on Elmo's antics.

"Anyone would think you'd missed me," Abby said quietly, the world narrowing down to just the two of them. He snorted softly, rubbing his face against her legs like a self-satisfied cat.

"Maybe a little," he admitted. "You know, because of the Sesame Street thing." She smiled, not believing that that was it for a moment, not when his fingers squeezed hers gently, moving her hand until he had it pressed against his chest, just over his heart. "Okay, I missed you."

"Because you love me?"

The corners of his mouth curled up. "Yeah, that must be it."

"I..." She choked, the lump in her throat threatening to undo her, robbing her of all of her words and most of her self-control. He turned his head, twisting to look up at her. The look in his eyes was warm and understanding, maybe a little amused, but it let her breathe again. "I'm glad to be home, too," she said, because that was all that was needed.


	13. Chapter 13

Although King was finally on the mend, it took a lot longer than she'd hoped. For some reason, she'd assumed he'd shake it off once his body started to make its own antibodies. Two or three days downtime and then he'd be back to normal.

She should have known it wouldn't be that easy. Nothing King did ever was.

His body continued to fight off the infection, but it was slow, hard going. He slept for most of the day, tiring easily even when he was awake. Caulder told her that was completely normal although how the hell Caulder could know what passed for normal in these situations was beyond her. Sometimes she thought he was making things up just to reassure her. That was when she was feeling charitable towards him.

The rest of the time she wondered whether he was simply telling her whatever he thought would shut her up.

She felt like she was in limbo - King had been right; she wasn't one for the mopping of fevered brows and holding his hand seemed pointless if he wasn't awake for long enough to appreciate it. And sitting next to him, watching him toss and turn in his sleep, simply left her feeling antsy, some part of her still half-convinced that it couldn't be real, that he couldn't be getting better. That if she turned her back for five minutes then when she turned back around the vampirism virus would have him in its grasp again.

She was restless, almost as restless as King. Once Caulder released him from their makeshift infirmary, they'd tried sharing a bed, but that hadn't worked out as well as she'd hoped. She wasn't used to sleeping next to someone, sharing their personal space, and King was still suffering from night sweats, waking up soaking wet and shivering. She felt completely useless when that happened, reduced to stripping the bed while King changed out of his damp t-shirt and sweats. The fact he still felt like shit left King grouchy and irritable, which wasn't like him at all, and the lack of sleep didn't do her mood any good either. More than once she'd had to bite back a sarcastic remark when he'd been particularly snappish, feeling shamefaced when she remembered the hell he'd spent the last few weeks going through, and what he was still going through now.

It was never like this in the movies.

She needed something to do, something to keep her active and her mind off all of the what-might-have-beens. She'd never been one for sitting on her ass, and she was chafing at the inactivity, something that obviously hadn't escaped King. Sometimes she caught him watching her, figuring it all out the way he'd always been able to figure her out.

It wouldn't have irked her so much if he hadn't seemed amused by it.

She wasn't the only one chomping at the bit. Sullivan had started to form tenuous connections with the remnants of other cells, and he was just itching to get back into the field. She couldn't blame him - it was what they did, after all. Fight vampires. Kill them. Make the world a safer place, that sort of thing. And when he told her that he thought he'd tracked down another nest, this time a little further from their current location, she was tempted. She just wasn't sure she could justify leaving King again, not when the end was in sight.

She should have known that King would have a different view when she tentatively broached the subject. She should also have known he'd find her reluctance funny. Sick or not, he could still be a complete dick when he wanted to be.

"I don't know, Abby. Far be it from me to say that your place is in the home, but..."

She stared at him blankly, her mind whirring and the guilt already rising at even suggesting that she should -

"Dick," she said succinctly when it finally dawned on her that he was mocking her. He grinned back at her, completely unrepentant.

"Seriously, sweetheart, just go. I mean, haven't we had this conversation already? Do we really need to repeat it? As long as the same caveats hold - be careful and don't get dead."

She searched his face, strangely reluctant to leave now he'd given his blessing. "Are you going to be okay?"

He had enough sense not to roll his eyes, but she suspected it had been close. "I'll be fine. I'll enjoy being a house husband for a while. I'm perfectly okay with sitting on my ass all day and watching reruns of _Days of Our Lives_."

She let that pass without comment - it was good to hear him cracking wise again and to see the light back in his eyes. "Make sure that Zoë eats her vegetables," she said solemnly, getting into the spirit of things. "And something healthy for breakfast - no chocolate cereal."

"Chocolate cereal is healthy. Commercials wouldn't lie to us."

He smiled at her, and her own mouth quirked automatically in response, her gaze tracing the lines of his face, committing him to memory. They never carried photos or any other kind of memento, nothing that could be traced back, either by the cops or the vampires they hunted. It was safer that way, and she knew that, but she was going to miss him. Miss them both.

Her family, and that was a scary thought.

"Do I need to give Sullivan 'the talk'?" he asked, semi-seriously. "The 'look after my girl or I'll kick your ass' talk?"

"I'm pretty sure he got that the first time you told him."

He shrugged, his eyes never leaving her face. "Couldn't hurt."

"I'm pretty sure that if you tried, he'd hurt you."

His eyes widened comically. "You don't think I could take him?"

"Right now, I don't think you could take Zoë."

"No," he said thoughtfully. "But that's only because she fights dirty."

She laughed - she couldn't help it, not when he said the most ridiculous things in the most serious of ways - and his face lit up again, happy to have made her happy. The sight sent a flood of warmth through her, something that settled in her chest and made her heart beat a little faster.

"When do you leave?" he asked when she'd finally finished laughing, going back to the business in hand. It sobered her up, a pang going through her at the thought of leaving him again.

"First thing in the morning," she said softly, reaching out without thinking to catch hold of his hand. Her fingers slid through his and his thumb stroked over her skin, almost as if he was the one trying to comfort her when he was the one being left behind. "I'll be back soon as I can," she promised.

He nodded, tugging gently on her hand until she half-rose from her seat and leaned towards him.

His kiss this time wasn't chaste or close-mouthed, and she didn't care if he tasted of cough medicine, or that his lips were a little rough and chapped when they pressed against hers. The important thing was that he was there for her to kiss.

-o-

They met up with Stokes and Willows again, this time somewhere south of Las Vegas. Apparently it was home turf for them, but all Abby could think was how disappointed King was going to be to miss out on Vegas, especially since Celine Dion was back to playing Caesars Palace.

He'd told her more than once that Dion was a 'Canadian treasure', but she'd never been entirely sure whether he was serious about that or not, especially not as his eyes had always twinkled as he'd said it.

Hunting was easier this time, maybe because the four of them were now a little more used to working together as a team or maybe because this nest of vamps didn't seem to believe in out of sight and out of mind. Or that could be down to the Vegas effect - maybe even vamps lost their sense of proportion in this most sinful of cities, allowing themselves to be seduced by the gloss and the glitter, the chance to win big and the never-ending nightlife.

But off the Strip, where they hunted, was a different story, seedy and run down, no big winners here, just life's losers. The kind of territory a vamp could lose themselves in, feeding on the detritus left behind once the glamour had faded.

King would be in his element here, cracking obscene jokes as they checked out one strip joint after another. She'd seen more bare breasts than she'd ever cared to, and somehow she thought that even King might get sick of them.

Not that she was planning to put that to the test.

She spent her nights prowling with Sullivan, or haunting the bars with Willows, who seemed to know everyone and everything.

She spent her days sleeping and missing King.

King seemed to be missing her as well. It wasn't long before texts started arriving on her disposable cell, the one that couldn't be traced, at least in theory. It also wasn't supposed to have any personally identifiable information on it, but she couldn't bring herself to delete any of the messages that King had sent - the sly little comments, in-jokes that only the two of them would understand; the occasional '_u ok?_', checking that she was still alive, still unhurt and coming home to him. The pictures of him and Zoë, candid little snaps he'd taken with the cell's camera, all awkward angles and a little grainy, but still showing him looking better than he had for a long time.

Willows caught her checking it once while they were on stakeout, the soft buzz of her cell giving her away. She gave Abby a knowing look, raising one eyebrow in a way that was familiar despite her not knowing the woman very well.

"Boyfriend?" she asked, a soft smirk playing around the corners of her mouth, and Abby nodded, surprising herself a little. It was still odd to think of King in those terms.

"Does he know what you do?" Willows asked next, showing the first interest in anything outside of hunting she had in the time that Abby had known her. "Or does he just think that you work away from home a lot?"

"He knows." Abby shrugged her shoulder, a little uncomfortable with Willows' direct line of questioning, although there didn't seem to be any malice in it. The woman was just curious, which made sense given her previous line of work. "He's one of us."

Willows raised her eyebrow again, an obvious encouragement for Abby to continue. It wasn't the kind of thing she'd do normally, preferring to keep to herself, but when it came to King, she was beginning to realise, she didn't mind talking about him as much. That didn't mean she was going to talk about him at length. Not to anybody else.

"He got hurt," she found herself explaining, scarcely believing that she was actually volunteering information and personal information at that, even as minimal as it was. "He's still recuperating."

"Yeah?" Willows asked absently, her gaze now fixed on the building they were watching. Her eyes narrowed - something had obviously caught her attention, but she continued, "Is he cute?"

Abby's cheeks started to heat up, making her thankful for the darkness inside the car. "I think so," she said quietly, hoping that Willows would let it drop.

It seemed that Willows was happy to, now that she had her sights on something else. She smiled slowly, something predatory in it as she placed her hand on the door handle, swinging the car door open and getting ready to step out. "Well, let's see if we can't get you back to him in a hurry, then," she said. "You ready to go kill some vampires?"

If it got her back to King a little bit quicker, she was more than ready.


	14. Chapter 14

They were longer than two weeks this time, and if Abby had thought she was restless before they'd gone on this hunt, it had nothing on how restless she was to get home again.

A different home. While she and Sullivan had been making less-than-nice with what was left of the vampire population of Nevada, Caulder and Marta had apparently been scouting for a better base of operations, something they could use on a more permanent basis than the ramshackle, empty building they'd been using while King recuperated.

Abby wasn't sure how she felt about that. The thought reminded her too much of the Honeycomb Hideout, how safe they'd felt there and how false that sense of security had turned out to be. On the other hand, having a sense of permanency wouldn't hurt Zoë and it would be good to put down some kind of roots, have somewhere they could leave stuff, come back to after a hunt and not have to worry about bedding down and settling in.

Overall, however, she couldn't get too worked up about it. She was beginning to realise that whatever qualified as home for her, it wasn't a building; it was wherever Zoë and King were.

It was late when they finally pulled to a stop on the rough patch of ground that would serve them as a parking lot. Caulder's truck was already parked there, and Sullivan slid theirs neatly in next to it, switching off the engine and turning off the lights. This time, they didn't walk into a seemingly empty building. Caulder's silhouette had appeared in the doorway as they pulled up, the light from behind him making him nothing more than a featureless shape in the darkness, but she recognised him, the shape of him and the way that he stood. It was comforting, somehow, the idea that he was now that familiar to her, that he'd been waiting for them to arrive - a sense of belonging that she hadn't realised she'd missed.

He nodded to Abby as she walked up to the door, his world-weary face cracking into a surprisingly attractive smile. "It is good to have you back," he said, widening his smile to encompass Sullivan, who was following hard on her heels. "Both of you."

"Zoë?" The eagerness was clear in her voice and she didn't even try to hide it - she needed to squeeze Zoë to within an inch of her life, give her the kind of hug that Abby just didn't give to anyone else.

Caulder's face drooped for a second, something slightly sympathetic colouring his expression. "Marta put her to bed about an hour ago after she fell asleep in her dinner. She's been a little excited about you coming back, and I don't think King helped much to calm her down."

While that was a disappointment, Abby moved past it and onto her next obvious question. "And King?" she asked a little dryly, relieved when Caulder's answer started with a little huff of laughter.

"I think he was just as excited as Zoë to have you back," he said. "But he's working it off in the gym. I don't believe that anyone was expecting to see you until the morning."

"Someone," said Sullivan pointedly, giving her a telling look as he moved past her and headed through the door with his bag, "insisted that we drive all night."

She ignored the jibe - there'd been no malice in it and she had other, more important things to think about. Like where the gym was, for example.

The corner of Caulder's mouth quirked as he read her far too easily. She should probably worry about that. Later. "In the basement," he said, and if he had any other comments to make, he was smart enough to keep them to himself.

She nodded her thanks at him, moving easily past him and heading in what she hoped was the right direction.

It was habit to do a quick recon, even if she was eager to find King. Never undervalue the need to know all of the exits, her father had told her more than once, probably the only useful piece of advice he'd ever given her. She moved through the building rapidly, noting everything - the layout of the rooms, the positions of the doors, the location of all of the windows and whether they locked.

It seemed to have been a factory once, somewhere small and compact but now empty and abandoned. She had no idea what it had made - the floors were concrete, but there weren't any trace marks of machinery, nothing that gave her a feel for what it must have been like when it was still in use. There was a small locker room, with an open shower area from what she could tell when she peered around the door, and the plasterboard offices in back had been converted by Caulder and Marta into small, self-contained bedrooms, big enough to hold mattresses and not much else. She found Zoë asleep in one of them, curled up on her side with Mr Gigglesworth clutched to her chest. The room on one side of Zoë's was empty, nothing but a bare mattress on the floor, but the one on the other side was obviously King's. There was a cheap chest of drawers in one corner, but King's leather jacket was draped over the top of it and his boots were by the bed.

There was no sign of Abby's stuff, the little she still had left after abandoning the Honeycomb Hideout, and the urge to check the drawers in King's room, just to see, made her fingers itch.

But there was another itch that needed scratching, one that was growing by the minute.

She finally found stairs that led her down and then out into another open area, one that had obviously served as a loading bay. The faint scent of diesel still hung in the air, and the heavy metal roll-up doors at one end were mute testimony to its former use.

The room was well lit if a little cold, bright electric lights overhead humming and flickering, and she could see what Caulder meant about 'the gym' - he'd scrounged or stolen equipment from somewhere, and mats covered half the floor.

But all of that was forgotten when she spotted King, hands wrapped around one of the low hanging metal beams as he used it to do pull-ups.

She paused in the doorway, taking the opportunity to study him before he knew she was there. He looked good - better than good, so much better than he had the last time she'd seen him that the last of her tension, the last few lingering doubts and fears she'd had about his recovery, faded away at the sight of him. He no longer looked anything like a vampire - he looked exactly like he was, young and healthy, and exceptionally fit. He'd lost weight while he'd been ill, thinner and sleeker than he had been, but even so, every one of his muscles was clearly defined as he pulled himself up and lowered himself back down again. The air down here might have held a slight chill, cooler than the rooms above, but despite that his thin t-shirt was soaked at the back with sweat, showing just how hard he'd been working. The fabric of it clung to his skin, leaving little to the imagination, and her mouth went suddenly dry, a nervous stutter where her heart used to beat.

She should say something, let him know she was here, but all of her words had fled, leaving her tongue-tied and breathless. She moved, her boots scraping against the concrete, and King heard her, dropping back down to the floor and turning to look at her.

The wary look on his face disappeared as soon as he caught sight of her, replaced with a delighted smile that let her heart start beating again, even faster now.

"Hey," he said, pulling down his towel from where he'd stashed it over the same beam he'd been using to work out and wiping the sweat from his face with it as he walked towards her, a bounce back in his step that had been missing for weeks. "You're back."

As stating the obvious went, there were worse things he could have said. She opened her mouth to say something profound, something that would convey just how much she'd missed him without veering towards sickeningly sweet, but what came out was: "You look good."

She winced internally, realising just how dopey she sounded, but King didn't seem to mind. He grinned back at her, his whole face lighting up, and she'd like to be able to put that down to him simply being pleased about his recovery, and her noticing it. But there was a look in his eye, something slightly smug and amused, that told her that he knew exactly what had prompted her comment.

"Not looking so bad there yourself, Whistler," he said, confirming her suspicions. He slung his towel around his neck, taking her in with the long, slow look that didn't do anything to lower her heart rate but did a hell of a lot to raise the temperature in the room.

She swallowed, her fingers itching to reach out and touch him, slide across the planes of his chest, map every one of those muscles with her fingertips. It took a moment for her to remember that nothing was stopping her from doing that now, no need for restraint or denial, not after everything they'd been through.

Not after she'd already kissed him more than once.

He stopped within arm's reach, looking down at her, a cocky smile playing around the corners of his mouth. His eyes, however, were warm, something much more genuine in them, something real and only for her.

She reached out and touched, her fingers curling slightly as she pressed them against his t-shirt, feeling the steady beat of his heart underneath.

King leaned in and she tilted her face up towards him automatically, her eyes closing as his mouth met hers. He kissed her slowly and thoroughly, taking his time as though he, too, was realising that time was something they now had. His hand came to rest on her waist, his thumb stroking along her skin where her shirt had ridden up. The feel of his skin against hers sent little shivers up and down her spine, her lips parting in response, breathing him in.

His tongue met hers, stroking along her lips as gently, as mindlessly, as his fingers were moving against her skin, and heat pulsed through her, pressing her more firmly against him, her fingers twisting in his t-shirt and pulling him closer.

He pulled back and stared down at her, the smile vanishing from his face and leaving something hungry behind, something that didn't scare her this time. His eyes were wide, dark with want, but completely human.

He kissed her again, hard and fierce, his arm wrapping around her waist and pulling her closer to him, every inch of her body pressed up against his. She let out a sound, something soft and needy, and he swallowed it down, his hands moving restlessly over her back, one finally burying itself in her hair, tilting her head back as he explored her mouth.

Her knees had gone weak, something she thought only happened in badly written romances or stupid romantic comedies, not something that would ever happen in real life, not something that would ever happen to her. But kissing King like this was making her giddy, as though all of her hopes and dreams were coming true, all of her fears finally put to bed. She couldn't get enough of him, her hands familiarising herself with the shape of his body, slipping underneath his t-shirt and letting the warmth of him soak into her.

His skin felt like velvet, the muscles underneath hard and unyielding when she leaned into him, let him take her weight. Her fingers drifted upwards, sliding over the ridges and furrows of his abs and up into the coarse, wiry hair scattered across his chest. Everything about him was a pleasure, from the way he tasted to the musky scent of fresh sweat, from the strength of his arms to the softness of his skin.

He finally broke away, keeping his arms around her as he pressed his forehead against hers, panting more heavily now than he had been while he'd been working out. "Hey," he said again, his voice rougher now, filled with barely suppressed desire. "Want to take this somewhere more private?"

He had the best ideas sometimes, even if it meant letting go of him now, something she was strangely reluctant to do if it meant him taking his hands off her skin. She couldn't articulate it though, too lost in the shape of his face, now cupped in her hands, and the remembered taste of his mouth. She leaned in again, kissing him, letting that be her answer.

King laughed against her mouth, his arms tightening around her as his lips finally left hers, trailing over her cheek, down towards her neck. She didn't know how the hell he knew, whether it was from observation or because he was simply psychic, knowing her better than anyone else, but he fastened on the exact spot on her neck that had her knees going out from under her again, her fingers clutching at him as her head rolled back and pleasure sang along every nerve ending.

He pulled back just before he reduced her to an incoherent, twitching heap, his lips brushing against her ear as he murmured, "Well, I'm definitely filing that one away for future reference."

She might have resented it if she'd been capable of thinking, but all she could think about was how badly she wanted him: with her, on her, in her. She slid her hands into his hair, pulling him down for another kiss, nipping at his lip with sharp, even teeth and loving every gasp, every little shudder he let out. His hands were hard on her body, growing more demanding by the second, a feedback loop of lust building between them until she was shaking as badly as he was, her kisses growing frantic, hot and heavy.

When he pulled back this time, his eyes were half-lidded and his face flushed, his gaze dropping automatically to her mouth as he brushed his thumb along her lower lip.

"I've got condoms upstairs," he rasped, heat flaring in his eyes again as she nipped at the tip of his thumb. It was too far and she didn't want to stop now, didn't ever want to stop. And...

They didn't have to stop, not when she'd thought ahead, hoping even if she hadn't been expecting. She'd picked up a packet of three from a vending machine in a rest-stop bathroom and tucked them neatly into her wallet so that Sullivan wouldn't see.

"Wallet," she muttered, opening her mouth and sucking his thumb into it just to listen to his sharp intake of breath. "It's in my -" But his fingers were already working their way inside her back pocket because they'd known each other long enough to know everything, up to and including where they kept their cash.

"You're such a Girl Scout, Whistler," he said, rifling through her wallet and pulling a foil covered packet free with a triumphant expression. "I really fucking love that about you."

"I thought that was the cookies," she said breathlessly and he grinned at her again, the look on his face warming her all the way through.

"Cookies, condoms," he sing-songed, his fingers making fast work of her buttons. "It's all good."

She wasn't going to argue with that. Couldn't argue with him, not when the smile he gave her, the way he cupped her cheek in his free hand and kissed her again, soft and sure, took her breath clean away.

-o-

When she finally caught her breath again, her limbs felt like lead, if lead had been capable of being happy and exhausted as well as heavy. It was only the chill of the sweat cooling on her body that finally gave her the energy to roll over, nestling herself against King's side, where it was warm and welcoming.

King wrapped his arms around her, holding her to him as his fingers stroked absently up and down her spine. If he kept that up, she'd start purring and he'd never let her live that down.

"I needed that," she said quietly, sliding her arm across his waist and pillowing her head on his chest.

King chuckled softly. "Any time, sweetheart."

"I meant... I missed you."

"Yeah." King's fingers paused for a moment before they pressed lightly against her skin again. He turned his head, brushing his mouth against her hair. "I meant it. Any time, sweetheart."

She let out a soft hum of agreement, her limbs turning liquid again as exhaustion claimed her.

"Hey, you can't go to sleep here."

She snuggled into him, keeping her eyes closed. "Yes, I can," she murmured, the protest muffled by the yawn she tried, and failed, to hold in.

"Okay, you're right. You can go to sleep here. Just as long as you don't mind Sullivan walking in on us at some point."

That woke her up as effectively as a bucket of cold water. She and Sullivan might have come to an understanding, but that sure as hell didn't mean she wanted him to see her naked. She was pretty sure she'd reserved that right for King in perpetuity.

King was laughing at her as she gathered her clothes together, pulling on her panties and glaring at him when he showed no sign of stopping. It had no affect, and she rolled her eyes at him, fastening her shirt and not bothering with her bra, not when she had every intention of getting him naked again as soon as she got him upstairs, even if it was just to sleep.

She somehow doubted, however, that they'd just be sleeping, and she hoped the walls of their new offices-slash-bedrooms were up to the task, especially if Zoë was asleep right next door.

That was when it occurred to her again that she had no idea which room was hers. She glanced at King, hesitating, and he didn't miss that either, raising one eyebrow at her quizzically.

"Do you know what happened to my stuff?" she asked, aiming for subtle. Maybe she managed it, or maybe she didn't. Either way, it seemed the King's answer was going to be the same.

"Our room's next to Zoë's," he said, watching her reaction closely.

She schooled her impression into something neutral, trying to hide the warmth that flooded through her. She should be pissed that he'd made the decision without her, but it was difficult to get annoyed when her decision would have been the same even if they had discussed it. Besides, she knew where he was coming from, why he'd done it. They lived in each other's pockets anyway, and they'd wasted far too much time.

She limited herself to a nod, brisk and business-like, not missing the relief that crossed his face and was quickly hidden when she didn't call him on his presumption.

He cleared his throat, slightly sheepishly. "I love you. You know that, right?"

"Yeah." She did, but she couldn't quite suppress the inward wriggle of joy at hearing the words out loud again. "So do you think you could do me a favour? Could you try not to get bitten again?"

"Hey, at least this time I wasn't bitten by a hot chick, so you don't have to worry about that."

She busied herself with fastening her jeans, staring down at him. "Does this mean you've stopped questioning your sexuality?"

His brow furrowed for a moment before he remembered what he'd said, and then he rolled his eyes at her, although his amused expression ruined the effect of it. "I think I've adequately demonstrated my commitment to heterosexuality." He gave her a slow once over before smirking up at her and adding, with a glint in his eye, "Feel free to disagree."

Her mouth twitched. "I might need some more convincing."

"That right? Well, never let it be said I don't rise to a challenge." He grinned, widening his eyes at her again, his lechery deliberately overdone just to amuse her.

Her smile softened, a wave of affection for him washing over her. "I love you," she said gently, and his smirk faded, replaced by something small and pleased, if a little surprised.

"Do you know that's the first time you've said it?" he said.

She paused in the act of pulling on her boots, frowning at him as she cast her mind back. She must have -

She hadn't, not that she remembered clearly, although there was a lot about the last few weeks she didn't remember clearly, everything subsumed in her worry and her fear for him. King would remember better than she did, just like she remembered the first time he'd told her he loved her, the words burned into her brain and engraved on her heart.

She had to trust that he was right, but that didn't mean she was going to let him milk it.

"Well, I'm telling you now," she said, giving him a wryly amused look, one that said clearly she knew what he was up to.

"Well, let the record show that I said it first."

"There is no record, King."

"Well, there should be." He finally pushed himself to his feet, pulling his sweatpants back on and hunting around for his t-shirt. "Man, I need a shower," he said, wrinkling his nose as he tugged it over his head.

"We both do." She watched him get dressed, simply enjoying the moment, as weirdly domestic as that sounded inside her head. "And I really do. Love you, I mean."

"Yeah, yeah. You can say it as often as you like..." He shot her a sudden, mischievous grin, a light of sheer devilment in his eyes. "Still doesn't change the fact that I said it first."

"Dick," she said succinctly, and his grin widened.

He opened his mouth to come back with another smartass remark or two, then obviously thought better of it, the grin fading from his face and his expression turning tender. He reached up and stroked his fingers along her hairline, down over the soft curve of her cheek, and then leaned in to kiss her again. She was beginning to think that he was secretly a romantic, or maybe not so secretly, because when he finally pulled back he murmured again, "You can say it as often as you like."

"I'll bear that in mind," she said dryly, knowing she'd end up saying it more frequently than she'd ever thought she would and probably still less than he hoped. She gathered up her bra, leaving him to deal with the discarded condom. "Didn't you say something about a shower?"

He caught hold of her hand as she passed him, and kept hold of it as they headed towards the stairs. It was strange how well his hand fit in hers, and how quickly she got used to it.

Maybe she would say it as often as he hoped, especially since she was now certain that every time she did, he'd say it back.

-o-

Zoë's eyes were watching them tragically, a small pout on her face. Abby wasn't fooled - she'd seen that expression more than once, and some of the time it had even been on Zoë's face instead of on King's.

"No chocolate cereal for breakfast," she repeated, keeping her voice firm even when faced with Zoë's lip quiver. That one she hadn't learned from King.

Zoë turned tragic eyes on King, knowing that he was likely to be the easier option. He hesitated, casting a quick look in Abby's direction, one she returned with a frown. They needed to be consistent about these things, and he knew that.

He caved, like she'd known he would, but at least he had enough sense not to entirely contradict her 'no chocolate for breakfast' rule. "How about I make pancakes for breakfast when we get back?" he asked, and Zoë's face brightened.

But she was definitely learning a thing or two from Abby, as well, because she asked shrewdly, "With syrup?"

"With maple syrup," Abby said pointedly. "Not chocolate."

King wouldn't contradict her on that one since he was firmly of the opinion that the only correct way to serve pancakes was with maple syrup and possibly bacon if you were feeling decadent. It was one of the few times he thought that the addition of chocolate syrup to a meal was an abomination.

King met her eyes over the top of Zoë's head, flashing her a quick wink, one that had her smiling automatically in response. She'd move past that at some point, smiling at him just because she could. Probably.

"We ready to move out?" Sullivan asked from the doorway, tapping his fingers impatiently against his leg.

Abby nodded, all business, and then turned back to Zoë. "Be good for Marta," she said. "We'll be back in a couple of days."

"Because you're hunting." It wasn't exactly a question, more like Zoë parroting facts, but Abby nodded anyway, smiling as she took in Zoë's serious expression. It wasn't scared, just solemn, because Zoë had every faith that they would be back, trusting them to fight the monsters that still haunted her dreams sometimes and then come home to make her pancakes.

King slung his arm around her shoulders, reaching out to ruffle Zoë's hair, at least in part because he knew she hated it. Abby leaned into his body, enjoying his warmth and the feel of him holding her as Zoë pouted up at them, smoothing her hair back down again.

"Pancakes," King said solemnly, matching Zoë's tone with his own. "I promise."

Zoë's pout faded a little, trusting him implicitly because even at six she already knew what it had taken Abby a little longer to figure out.

King always kept his promises. Especially the ones he made to her.

The end


End file.
